


People Do It All the Time

by fourteencandles (thingsbaker)



Series: Here's Us Together [7]
Category: Entourage
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:19:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsbaker/pseuds/fourteencandles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you serious?” Sloan asks, meeting Vince’s eyes.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says. He leans forward, just a little, keeping a small, easygoing smile on his face, to let her know no hard feelings if she doesn’t want to. “I mean, you guys have chemistry. We have chemistry. It could be — </p><p>“Like a chemistry experiment?” Eric says, and Vince elbows him.</p><p>“It could be fun.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to my Livejournal in 2009. No spoilers for Entourage beyond Season 1.

They’re at a charity event — Vince isn’t even sure what it is, but Ari said they should go, and Eric was keen on it. That’s rare enough to get Vince interested. Since coming out, they  _go_  out less than ever. Eric gets nervous. At first, Vince thought it was mostly because Eric’s never really been a spotlight player before; suddenly having the cameras pointed his way was pretty alarming. Then there was the whole thing with him freaking out about his mother, which Vince totally understood and supported him through, but it still meant they spent a lot more time at home than Vince liked. Finally, though, Eric was getting better about going out, after Vince’s movie did well over the summer, but they’ve recently had a couple of awkward run-ins, including a guy who threw a Bible at Eric’s car outside Spago. So Vince has said OK to laying low again; to Eric’s credit, he’s been working to make staying in worth Vince’s while. Now that Turtle has his own place, they have the house all to themselves. Staying home can be fun, too.  
  


But the charity event is a big deal for several of Ari’s favorite people, so there they are, climbing out of the back of a car. Cameras flash and Eric’s hand, which was resting comfortably on Vince’s back, falls away. Vince fights the urge to roll his eyes, instead pastes on his best big smile and takes Eric’s hand. He feels Eric tense, but fuck, he’s got to get used to this at some point. They’ve been out for almost eight months. Vince uses his free hand to wave at a familiar photog. “Smile, dear,” he says, teasing.  
  


Eric squeezes so hard Vince feels like his fingers might break. He smiles as long as he can, then tugs Eric up the stairs. Eric lets go as soon as they’re in the door, and Vince wrings out his hand. “Was that necessary?” he asks. Eric gives him a look, reflecting the question, and Vince does roll his eyes. “E -”  
  


“Don’t start, all right?” Eric says. He steps closer and straightens Vince’s tie, which Vince takes as an apology. “Come on.”  
  


They walk into the ballroom, not touching but close, and as the doors open Vince feels the flicker of eyes sliding on to them but keeps walking. “You gonna bid on anything?” he asks, pointing at the buffet of silent auction pieces.  
  


Eric shrugs. “Lakers tickets, maybe?”  
  


“Go for it.”  
  


They pass into the crowd and Eric spots someone he wants to talk to almost immediately. “Andrea Kemper,” he says, “she financed Colin Farrell’s last thing?”  
  


“Oh yeah,” Vince says. “You gonna hit her up?”  
  


They’re working, at the moment, to get money lined up for  _Spectaculo_ , a new thriller that Vince and Eric really like and Ari calls “very marketable.” “I’m just gonna make nice,” Eric says.  
  


Vince laughs. “Go get ‘er, tiger,” he says. “You need me?”  
  


“Nah.”  
  


“Then I’ll be at the bar.”  
  


He detours en route to take a look at the auction items. The names on the forms are familiar — clients of Ari’s, producers, agents, the hot and rich of Hollywood. Used to be, at these things, he had a director on his arm the minute he walked into the room, an agent kissing his ass within a few feet of the door; now they’re all shy, a little scared. _Nightfeeders_  opened huge in June, but people are still nervous; Vince headlined the film, but people are giving half the credit to Cameron and another half to his co-stars. He still hasn’t opened a film on his own since he came out, and Ari says that’s making people a little skittish. Vince figures fuck ‘em: David Lynch’s  _In The Ring_ , the boxing movie he just finished filming, opens on Christmas, and Vince knows how good that film is going to be. He knows how good he is, and if these people forget it for a while, well, turns out he’s not making movies for them. Fuck them all.   
  


A woman he recognizes as the over-surgeried wife of one of the studio chairs is hovering over a Fred Leighton item, and Vince catches her staring, as if maybe he’ll do a little gay trick. He grins at her. “Could I borrow your pen?” he asks, and under her flustered gaze he signs up for the item in front of him: a romantic weekend at the Beverly Hills Hotel, including use of the presidential bungalow. He grins just imagining the shade of red Eric will turn if he wins.  
  


When he finishes writing down his bid — twice the generous amount offered by the last bidder — he feels someone leaning in close over his shoulder and smells expensive spicy perfume. “It usually goes for half that,” a familiar voice says, and Vince sets down the pen.  
  


“But that’s not very charitable,” he says, turning to greet Sloan. “How are you?”  
  


“I’m well,” she says. They share a quick hug, and when she draws back her smile is both friendly and conspiratorial. Vince hasn’t seen her for a long time, and they haven’t really talked since she and Eric broke up, long before Vince would’ve ever dreamed of signing up in public for a romantic weekend with him. She looks the same, which is to say she looks very, very good: sleek black dress, spiky black heels, hair shining and swept back to show off classy diamond earrings. “And you?”  
  


“Really good,” he says.  
  


She glances back at the crowd. “Eric?”  
  


“He’s here,” Vince says. “Schmoozing.”  
  


Sloan’s grin spreads out a little. “It’s funny that even you lose face time to business,” she says. “Since you’re the business.”  
  


Vince shrugs. “It has its disadvantages,” he agrees. “I’m getting a drink, you want to join?”  
  


“I’d love to.”  
  


They walk to the bar and catch up in a casual, friendly way, talking through projects and life over the past few years. She has her own business, now, with two of her closest friends — they manage promotions for couple of restaurants and ultrahip nightclubs and are considering branching out into clothing. She mentions a place in Rome that rings a bell for Vince. “We do a lot of international business,” she says. Vince can guess from the expense of her dress — it’s got to be Versace — what kind of success this is, and he congratulates her sincerely. After all, he liked Sloan. She was good to Eric, and she’s been kind enough not to talk to anyone in the press since they came out. Vince appreciates that kind of loyalty. He also knows Eric appreciated her card after the Golden Globes.  
  


“Can I ask you something?” she says, on her second glass of wine. “Were you guys — while Eric and I —”  
  


“No,” Vince says, and he’s glad that’s not a lie. It was close — a few days before, a few after — but not during. There was too much going on at the time.  
  


She nods. Vince watches her eyelids flicker, and is surprised to feel Eric’s hand on his back a second later.  
  


“Hi,” he says, in the sharp way that means he’s nervous.  
  


“Hi, Eric,” Sloan says. She leans in, and Eric does, too, and they have an anxious dance of hands and twisting faces before Eric finally kisses her cheek, chastely.  
  


“How are you?” he asks, settling back in beside Vince.  
  


“I’m good,” she says. “I’m doing really well.”  
  


Vince recites the name of her business and the club in Rome, and Eric’s eyes widen. “Sloan, that’s terrific,” he says. “Congratulations!”  
  


“We’re opening in Tokyo next month,” she says.  
  


“Let’s celebrate,” Vince says, and waves down a waiter carrying champagne. Behind them, people are starting to take their seats for the dinner and auction results. No one at this dinner interests Vince at all: a bunch of people who want to talk money, who look at him and then shift their eyes to Eric and see everything in terms of dollar signs, where Eric’s presence means a discount. He’s fucking tired of it. Sloan, at least, is interesting. An old friend. She takes a glass of champagne, and Vince joins her. “To old friends,” he suggests, and she raises her glass, as does Eric after a second’s hesitation.  
  


“It really is good to see you,” Eric says, and he sounds both sincere and surprised.  
  


The hostess announces that dinner is about to be served, and Vince looks out over the expanse of formally-attired, spectacularly boring industry folks around the room and then back at Sloan.  
  


“Shall we grab a table?” he asks.  
  


The tables have place cards, but no one’s going to argue if he shuffles them. He still has that clout. Sloan agrees, with a bright friendly smile, and they take seats halfway back. Eric gives him a look that might be a warning, but Vince shrugs. Sloan seems fine. Not even wistful. Over dinner, they talk genially about a little bit of everything, including some of the strange stuff happening when Sloan and Eric were dating. It’s actually kind of fun. Sloan isn’t seeing anyone at the moment — too busy, she says, and Eric seems to find that funny — but she’s only been out of a serious relationship for a few months. It doesn’t bother Vince to hear that she’s on the market, because he knows — he’s confident — that Eric is completely unavailable.  
  


After dinner, Vince’s bid on the romantic weekend wins. Sloan cheers and says, “Oh, stop blushing, it’s too cute,” when Eric tries to duck behind his hands while Vince goes to the front to pick up his winnings.  
  


“I can’t believe you did that,” Eric says when Vince sits back down.  
  


“Believe it, baby,” Vince says, sliding over the folder of information for which he’s just paid $20,000. “And it’s next weekend, too.”  
  


“Christ.”  
  


“Oh, yeah, you poor thing,” Sloan says, grinning across at Eric. “You have to spend a weekend sequestered with your movie star boyfriend in a bungalow that has its own pool. Wow, Eric, how will I wipe away the tears?”  
  


“He’s a lot more difficult than I get credit for,” Eric says, sulking, and Vince laughs.  
  


Sloan rolls her eyes. “I practically had to beat you up to get a weekend away,” she says, giving him a playful punch on the arm. “Maybe I should’ve tried the auction trick.”  
  


She’s a little drunk, but so is Vince. “I always liked you,” Vince says, leaning forward. “I just want you to know that. I always thought you were good for E.”  
  


She smiles, and there’s a tiny bit of sadness there. “I liked you, too,” she says. “Though I’m not sure I thought the same, all the time.”  
  


“Competition’s a bitch,” Vince agrees. He holds out his hand. “Look, friends, though?”  
  


She takes his hand, and he spontaneously draws hers up and kisses the back, then the pale inside of her wrist. Eric coughs. “That’s friendly,” he says, and Vince smiles over Sloan’s skin.  
  


“He’s jealous,” she says, with a pretty, knowing smile. “I always thought it was kind of hot.”  
  


“I agree,” Vince says, slowly releasing her hand. When he sits back, Eric has his arm on the back of Vince’s chair. Vince shakes his head. “You know, I’m glad you were here. I’m glad we ran into you.”  
  


“Me, too,” she says, and her smile is kind and maybe a little surprised. “We should get together.”  
  


“We should,” Vince agrees. It seems like a great idea. They can have a few drinks and a few laughs. It’s what adults are supposed to do, after all. No reason not to be friends. And, Jesus, anything to get out of the house. “Next week? Drinks at The Palm?”  
  


She frowns. “I leave for Beijing Monday, I’ll be gone for a while. But when I get back -”  
  


“Absolutely,” Eric says, but Vince interrupts.  
  


“No,” he says, leaning forward, “that’s no good. That never works out. We’ll do it this week. I’m serious about this.”  
  


When he glances back, Eric’s giving him a funny look. He shakes it off and turns to Sloan. “Is your number the same?”  
  


“As always,” she says.  
  


They part with the same hugs as before, and Vince feels really happy about the whole deal. He turns to Eric in the car to say so, and finds the funny look back on his face. “I can’t figure out,” Eric says, “if you really had a good time or if there’s something weird going on.”  
  


“Weird?” Vince asks. “Like what? I like Sloan.”  
  


“I like Sloan, too,” Eric says. “Which is kind of what I mean.”  
  


Vince spins that sentence around in his head for a moment, but it doesn’t make any more sense. “What do you mean?” he asks.  
  


“She’s my ex-girlfriend,” Eric says. “You aren’t trying to prove anything, are you?”  
  


“Like what? I got you and she didn’t?” Vince snorts. “She barely had you.”  
  


“She doesn’t know that,” Eric murmurs, and Vince turns to face him.  
  


“I’m not just playing nice,” Vince says. “I like her. She’s fun to be around. And she seemed to have a good time tonight. Right?” Eric nods. “Look, if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll call and say this week’s too busy.”  
  


“No, it’s fine,” Eric says. His frown eases, almost curls into a smile. “Just not much fun being ganged up on.”  
  


  
  


Vince calls Sloan the next day and arranges for dinner on Thursday, which Eric says is the best possible day. Friday and Saturday nights, after all, will be spent at the Beverly Hills Hotel Bungalow.  
  


They meet at a Thai place that doesn’t get a lot of press but does make a mean Pad Prik King and serves Singha. By the third round, Vince is slumped into Eric’s side, eating noodles off Eric’s plate with his fingers while Eric and Sloan talk in blurry slurs about business. They eat out all the time, but usually for business or with the guys, never just casual. And when it’s just the two of them Eric always sits across from him, so this is good. Sloan’s smile comes quick every time Eric says something sharp, and she eats the carrots that Vince rejects off of Eric’s plate.  
  


“Sharing is nice,” Vince says, watching Sloan nibble a round piece of carrot.  
  


“Thanks for that,” Eric says, tightening his arm around Vince’s shoulders. “Jesus, you’re a lightweight all the sudden?”  
  


Vince doesn’t think it would be appropriate to mention the bowl he shared with Turtle before he left the house, so instead, he says, “Remember the time you guys had a threesome?”  
  


Sloan pops the carrot into her mouth, and Eric’s head jerks back. Vince grins, and Sloan smiles back, after a second.  
  


“I think that cost you Aquaman 2,” she says, and Vince nods and lifts his glass in salute.  
  


“I think this just cost me ten years of my life,” Eric mutters, pushing Vince so that he’s sitting up against the booth.  
  


Vince shrugs. “You know, we could,” he says. He’s watching Sloan, not Eric, because he can guess the reaction over there. Sloan’s eyes narrow, then widen, and she looks from Vince to Eric, then back.  
  


“I’m sorry,” Eric says, “he doesn’t -”  
  


“Are you serious?” Sloan asks, meeting Vince’s eyes.  
  


“Yeah,” he says. He leans forward, just a little, keeping a small, easygoing smile on his face, to let her know no hard feelings if she doesn’t want to. “I mean, you guys have chemistry. We have chemistry. It could be —   
  


“Like a chemistry experiment?” Eric says, and Vince elbows him.  
  


“It could be fun.”  
  


Now she looks back at Eric, and Vince turns to watch them. They seem to have some kind of silent conversation, where Sloan stares and Eric blushes, then shrugs, then puts one hand on Vince’s shoulder. When he looks away, that seems to be the answer Sloan needs, even though Vince suddenly feels a little uneasy. But Eric’s hand is steady, warm, and Vince reminds himself he has nothing to worry about.  
  


“If you’re serious,” she says, “then we could, sure. But I leave for China Monday.”  
  


“It so happens,” Vince says, “that we have a romantic getaway planned this weekend.”  
  


“And what says romance better than a threesome with my ex and my crazy sex fiend partner?” Eric says, but he’s smiling when Vince looks over. “OK, OK,” he says, and turns to Sloan. “Saturday night?” he asks. “We’ll supply the booze.”  
  


She grins. “You’re on.”  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Friday, they arrive at the hotel and dart past a tenacious cluster of paparazzi at the front door. Eric rubs his forehead as they cross the lobby, and he looks so stressed that it puts Vince in a bad mood. A bellhop and one of the hotel’s assistant managers show them to the suite, and while the bellhop tucks away their bags the manager makes a point of showing them all of the romantic amenities and plans. As he lingers over the wonders of the private whirlpool and lap pool, Vince glances over at Eric, who’s standing with his hands in his pockets, slightly removed from the scene, like this is a business meeting where Vince is the star and he’s just management. Vince pastes on a big smile for the manager.  
  


“Is this pool visible from the grounds?” he asks.  
  


“I guarantee, it’s well-l-l-l sequestered,” the man says, and he even throws in a little wink. “The Jacuzzi in the main bath also accommodates two people very easily. You should have a look, try it out.”  
  


“Christ,” Eric mutters, and walks back into the suite.  
  


Vince does his best to keep up conversation with the guy as they walk back inside. Eric’s nowhere to be seen, but Vince hears a noise like clothes being thrown around from the master bedroom. “You are, of course, welcome to join us for dinner in the lounge, but your package also includes room service.”  
  


“Oh,” Vince says, and he makes sure his voice carries, “I think we’ll be unlikely to surface, so in-room would be wonderful.”  
  


“Excellent,” the manager says. He slips Vince a card before he leaves, which Vince lays on one of the elegant end tables. The sound of drawers opening and closing — slamming, really — in the bedroom makes him briefly consider just flopping onto the overly-pillowed couch and turning on the plasma, but he’s sick and tired of this act. So he walks back, past three other bedrooms, to where Eric’s carelessly tossing clothes out of his duffle bag into what is probably an antique dresser built by God or Chippendale.  
  


Vince sets his shoulder against the door frame. “What, you don’t like the room?” he asks.  
  


Eric doesn’t even turn, just scoffs. “It’s a palace.”  
  


“It’s supposed to be romantic.”  
  


Now Eric turns, with his arms crossed. “This is your idea of romance? Getting told by a guy in a suit that the bathtub is big enough to fuck in?”  
  


“That’s good information to have,” Vince says. Eric rolls his eyes. “All right, what, E? What crawled up your ass? The cameras outside? Fuck them, I’m sure they got your good side.”  
  


Eric shakes his head, angry and silent, one of his worst moods. He pulls his shaving kit out of the bag and pushes into the bathroom. Vince stays standing at the door, trying to remind himself that he loves Eric, that he’s in this for real, that it’s not better to have a string of uncomplicated lays. He can’t remember the reasons, though, until he hears Eric say, “Holy shit,” from the bathroom.  
  


Vince walks over and pushes the door open. Inside is a bathroom like no other he’s seen — and he’s seen quite a few. It’s almost like a little spa. It has the regular bathroom amenities: toilet tucked into a separate cabinet, dual sinks, a wall-wide mirror with bright overhead lights. But it also has the tub in question, which is granite-lined, set into the floor, a real jacuzzi-type spa that’s already filled with steaming water, rose petals floating on the surface. There’s a bottle of champagne on ice next to the tub. It’s like walking onto a set that’s prepared for a very sappy love scene.  
  


Eric turns to look at him, the shaving kit still in his hands. “Remember when we stayed at the Best Western that summer, when we drove to Williamsburg?”  
  


“And your mom had a coupon so we got an upgrade? Yeah,” Vince says. Until he moved to L.A., it was the biggest hotel room he’d ever seen, a deluxe suite with a king-sized bed, a sleeper sofa, a tiny balcony overlooking the parking lot, and a slightly larger-than-normal tub with three sputtering jacuzzi jets.   
  


“Jesus,” Eric says. He sets his shaving kit on the counter, where it looks small and cheap and out of place. Vince sees those same feelings flicker across Eric’s face in the mirror. He takes two long steps into the room and slides his arms around Eric from behind.  
  


“We deserve this,” Vince whispers in his ear. “E -”  
  


“Yeah,” he says, and looks up so they’re meeting eyes in the mirror.  
  


Vince kisses his neck. “E,” he murmurs, his hands slipping under Eric’s shirt, “you are young and hot and pretty well-off, and you’re hooked up with someone who’s younger and hotter and loaded.”  
  


“And so fucking humble,” Eric says. He seems to be watching the progress Vince’s fingers are making with his zipper.  
  


“I’m just pointing out, you’re basically living the dream, man,” Vince says, getting the zipper all the way down.  
  


“What, are you the dream?” Eric asks, and he smirks and looks up.  
  


“This is the dream,” Vince says. “This place. Us being here. You know?”  
  


It takes a second, but Eric nods. He turns around and they kiss, softly at first and then with some intent, with tongue and a little bit of teeth from Eric. When he slips back, Vince has his shirt unbuttoned and his hands tucked beneath Eric’s waistband. “OK,” Eric says.  
  


“Hm?”  
  


“The bath,” he says. “Might as well use it. It’s already paid for.”  
  


Vince grins.  
  


  
  


Later that night, after they’ve made it through the tub and one of the four bedrooms, they’re lying on the couch in the living room, waiting for their promised, romantic, custom-prepared dinner to arrive. Vince has his head comfortably resting on Eric’s thigh while they watch  _The Big Lebowski_  for the tenth time. “It really is like they made a movie version of how things could have turned out for Turtle,” Vince says, and Eric hums an agreement. His fingers are rubbing through Vince’s still-damp hair, and Vince is feeling ridiculously sated and comfortable. He’s looking forward to dinner, and still wants to go for a midnight swim, but right now just lying on the couch with Eric is perfect. Everything is perfect.  
  


“It’s 8:00,” Eric says.  
  


“They said twenty minutes.”  
  


“No, I mean, it’s Friday night at 8.”   
  


Vince blinks. Every Friday night for the past five months, he’s called his mother at exactly 8. He knows she’s always in by 11, New York time, because she and his aunt Myra always go for early coffee and thrift shopping on Saturday mornings. Even though he knows this, she hasn’t picked up once, not once in ten months. She hasn’t called back, either, though he leaves decent, friendly messages every time, with his number and schedule for the week. They haven’t spoken since October, when he was back in New York for Eric’s mother’s funeral, and when it seemed like a good idea to clue her into the fact that he had someone with whom he often has perfect moments like this.  
  


“You gonna call her?” Eric asks. His voice is gentle. He’s never pressured Vince to call or not to call; Vince knows Eric traded a few sharp words with Vince’s mother near Christmas, when the  _Post_  ran a blind item about them that was probably sourced through her. After that, they ran a story about Vince’s and his mother’s estrangement, and that’s when he started making the phone calls. His birthday and Christmas have both gone by without word; he won the Globe and the Oscar and came out to the whole world, and she didn’t even send a card or a word through Johnny.  
  


“No,” he says, and Eric’s hand pauses mid-stroke, fingers caressing Vince’s scalp.  
  


“OK,” Eric says. His hand moves to Vince’s shoulder. “Any reason?”  
  


“Lots of them,” he says. Eric squeezes his shoulder, and Vince closes his eyes. “I’m just through.”  
  


“Yeah?”  
  


Vince nods.  
  


There’s a knock on the door. “Hang on,” Eric says, and he gets up carefully and answers. Two waiters in full restaurant dress roll in a cart full of silver-lidded trays. “Just on the table,” Eric says, and they brush by the couch to begin setting up the meal. Vince is surprised when Eric retakes his place on the couch and starts stroking his hair again, but he decides not to say anything. Instead he just takes it for what it is, a little needed support at exactly the right time.  
  


  
  


Vince gets his midnight swim but not his proposed pool sex and they go to bed in the King-sized master suite. They wake up late the next morning, eat a breakfast of fresh fruit and cream and crepes and just-squeezed orange juice, and spend the rest of the day sort of bumming around the bungalow, checking out all of the amenities and calling Turtle and Johnny to brag. In a way, it’s sort of weird, being isolated from the world, forced to relax — but Vince loves it, really, likes just hanging out with Eric and discovering all the bells and whistles, and Eric only sneaks away to check his e-mail two or three times.  
  


Around five, they get out of the bathtub again — it’s really that cool — and Vince says, “Should I order extra food for Sloan, tonight, you think?”  
  


Eric shrugs, and Vince watches the fine muscles of his back roll under his skin. There are still two beds they haven’t touched. “That meal last night was enough food for six people,” he says. “Plus, it’d be kind of weird if we asked them to add a third plate, you know?”  
  


So he orders for two, though he’s decidedly not sharing his handmade porcini-stuffed ravioli with a blueberry-sage reduction over a truffle-cream sauce, and checks out the liquor cabinet and wine rack. They eat their second romantic dinner on the couch in the living room, watching Sports Center and not really talking or touching. Vince finally turns, setting down his créme caramel, and watches Eric pick at the sugar crust on his dessert for a moment.  
  


“You don’t want to do this,” he says, and Eric’s head whips around.  
  


“No, it’s fine,” he says.  
  


“Uh-huh. You’re torturing perfectly good food.”  
  


“I’m cruel,” Eric says, but then he sets the plate on the coffee table. He stares at it for a minute. “I’m a little nervous, is all,” he says. Something warm shivers in Vince’s chest. He puts his arms around Eric, and Eric leans into him. “Not so long ago the only person in the world who knew I wanted you was you,” he says, “and now we’re going to fuck with an audience?”  
  


“With audience participation,” Vince says. He kisses the shell of Eric’s ear, then his neck.  
  


“Just tell me something,” Eric says. “You want to do this — why?”  
  


Vince shrugs. “I just thought it might be fun.”  
  


“Not because you’re, uh —”  
  


Vince laughs. “I’m not bored. I don’t miss women, I don’t miss fucking other people. Honest, E, I think I just suggested it to see if you’d go along. And because Sloan, you know, she’s good people and she’s hot. We can have fun with her. But, look, we can call and —”  
  


“No,” he says, and Vince feels him relax a little. “You’re right, we can have fun.”  
  


“So ease up, then,” he says. “You’re at an advantage here, really — you know what everyone wants.”  
  


Eric smiles. “I know what you want, right now.”  
  


“It’ll help loosen you up,” Vince says.  
  


They make out for a bit, just easy kisses and touches, nothing too arousing. Like always, they fit together nicely, Vince between Eric’s knees, his fingers on Eric’s smooth face. “Should I shave, before she gets here?” he asks Eric.  
  


Eric hmms against his neck, then kisses his way up over Vince’s jaw and cheek. “Not for me,” he says, and that’s all Vince needs to hear.  
  


Vince gets up to answer the door when the knock comes, leaving Eric spread nicely on the couch. Sloan is standing at the door, looking beautiful in a fitting skirt and low-cut blouse. He holds the door for her and kisses her cheek, careful to linger, in greeting.  
  


“Hey,” Eric says from the couch. He’s sitting up, but it’s got to be clear what they were just doing — his collar is pushed open and his lips are puffy, and he has the wonderful glassy-eyed look that he sometimes gets when he’s turned on. Vince grins and winks at him, and he blushes a little. He hopes Sloan sees this. He feels suddenly awkward, a little possessive of Eric, and has a second’s flash of regret over the whole idea. Wouldn’t it be better just to take Eric back to bed?  
  


“Can I get you a glass of wine?” Eric says, standing up, his voice a little formal and nervous, too. That makes Vince feel better, somehow, and so he smiles at Sloan.  
  


“Or champagne?” Vince suggests.  
  


Sloan touches his side, and Vince realizes he must be pretty obvious, too. “Sounds nice,” she says.   
  


They finish off a bottle together in the kitchen, standing around the counter. It feels better, somehow, like this, just hanging out, than it did in the living room. Sloan touches Eric’s arm a few times as he talks, and she does the same to Vince, and he likes it. He puts his hand in Eric’s back pocket, just casual, just there, while he leans against the island. Eric stays close to him, and Vince likes that, too.  
  


“So,” Eric says, a leading, careful word, and Vince grins across at Sloan. Vince knows he needs to be the one who gets this started: Eric is a great manager, he’s fantastic at seeing things through, but he needs Vince to kick things off. Which is no problem, because here, at least, Vince is the voice of experience.  
  


“So,” he says, and then he leans over and kisses Eric full on the mouth. With his fingers on Eric’s cheek, he turns to Sloan, to include her. They kiss, and it actually takes Vince a few seconds to catch on that he needs to make it more than chaste; it’s really been that long since he kissed anyone else seriously that his habit is closed-mouth kissing for anyone not Eric. With his hand still on Eric’s face, he cups Sloan’s cheek in his other hand and closes his eyes when his tongue touches hers. When he pulls back, she licks her lips, and he smiles. She tips her head, just slightly, toward Eric, and Vince takes a step back, drops his hand to Eric’s shoulder. He watches them kiss greedily, notes the way Eric’s eyes stay open and dart toward him, watches him nervously put a hand on Sloan’s slim waist, watches Sloan push her fingers into Eric’s hair. They break apart and Eric is panting, and he puts his hand on Vince’s arm and squeezes.  
  


“We all seem to be wearing a lot of clothes,” Vince says.  
  


“I agree,” Sloan says, and she walks over and stands behind Vince. Eric’s eyes are wide, and he swallows once but then smiles, a little, as Vince starts to unbutton his shirt. Vince feels Sloan’s fingernails scratch lightly against his chest as she pulls up his T-shirt, and he raises his arms to allow it. He’s been dressed and undressed by hundreds of women — and several men — over the course of his life, and it’s nothing to him to be naked. When Sloan starts working on his belt, Vince does the same to Eric, and Eric helps him. They get his belt off and pants unzipped at the same time Sloan tugs loose Vince’s jeans. “Oh,” Eric murmurs, one hand on Vince’s belly, and Vince smiles, because really, who wears underwear to a threesome?  
  


Eric clears his throat. There’s a promising flush on his neck and the light skin between his collarbones. “We seem to be ahead,” he says, and Vince looks back at Sloan. She’s still fully dressed.  
  


She smiles, and turns, and says over her shoulder, “Bed?”  
  


They both take a moment to untangle from pants and socks, then follow her back to the master bedroom. She already has her blouse and bra off — and Vince is sad to have missed that show — and she’s stepping out of her skirt when he walks in. She’s absolutely beautiful. Caramel skin and confident in it. Exactly what Vince used to look for, when he was looking so hard. Almost movie star beautiful. She spreads out easily on the bed and beckons, and Vince gives Eric a nudge, watches him fall into probably a familiar embrace. Something in Vince’s chest lurches at the sight of them, together, of Eric’s hand so easily cupping Sloan’s breast, his mouth fitting neatly with hers, and he realizes that maybe he should have set some rules. Well, he thinks, stepping forward, nothing’s set in stone.  
  


He slides in on Sloan’s right side and smiles down at her, and then with the weight of Eric’s eyes on him he kisses her, working now in a way he didn’t in the kitchen. He’s a good kisser, he knows it, and he keeps his eyes open just enough to watch Sloan learning it. He has years of practice at this, at reading women’s bodies and knowing where and how to move, and he knows how best to make things seem natural, too. Sloan twists when Vince’s fingers close on her nipple; she twists away when he starts to pinch, so he smoothes his hand, strokes her flat belly, and lets his fingers tangle with Eric’s at the edge of her pubic bone. He pulls back, mouths her neck, and listens to Eric kiss her. Then he tilts his head back and Eric lunges, mouth suddenly on Vince’s neck, which is exactly what Vince wanted and exactly what he knew Eric would do. He grips Eric’s head with one hand and frees the other, slides it between Sloan’s legs, brushes just faintly, just a ghostly, testing tease, over her clit. She moans and Vince does, too, as Eric’s tongue tangles with his and Eric’s hand comes up and grips Vince’s hip. He pulls and Vince does as he’s directed, slides up and over Sloan so that he’s looking down at her while Eric’s still lined up on her left side. His cock is already hard and heavy, curving up against his belly.  
  


“This OK?” he asks, because he knows Sloan needs to give permission.  
  


“Yes,” she says, and kisses him and her fingers press into his shoulder blades. Between their bodies, Vince keeps his hand on her, now rubbing little circles, pleased by the spread of her thighs and the quiver of her belly. Eric’s hand is busy, too; when Vince pulls back from Sloan, Eric’s fingers slip across his face and Vince sucks, habit. Eric leans in and his lips brush Vince’s, the tip of one wet finger touches his chin. “This OK?” he asks, and Vince barely nods before two of Eric’s slick fingers slide into him.  
  


“Oh,” he says, and he watches Sloan’s eyes widen and realizes it’s probably because he just got very hard against her.  
  


“You should do this to her, too,” Eric says, and it takes Vince a moment to understand what he’s saying. Then he nods, and lowers the hand working her to the wetness below. He puts his forehead against Sloan’s, and she whispers, “Yes, Vince,” and he nods and swallows and as Eric presses deeper into him, he slides two fingers into her. For a while, there’s just that rocking, Vince trying to concentrate but mostly just mimicking Eric, dipping in to kiss Sloan when he can, when he remembers. Eric’s fingers scissor and Vince starts to gasp, but Sloan absorbs it, and her hands are suddenly on his ass, holding him apart so Eric can move. He feels ganged up on, especially when Eric’s hand slicks over Vince’s cock and he says, over Vince’s shoulder, to Sloan, “I think he’s ready.”  
  


He wants to have a say in things, so he clears his throat. “Condom?” he asks, and then realizes he doesn’t have one, and Eric won’t, either. They travel without because they’re exclusive and they’re clean. Surely somewhere in this room they have something. “Uh -”  
  


“The patch,” Eric and Sloan say together, and Vince decides, fuck it, he’s going to feel left out however this goes. And yet he’s in the middle, which he remembers when Eric’s third finger — slick with lube, because they always travel with that — slides in and Sloan licks his throat.  
  


“OK,” he says, knowing his voice is trembling. “OK?”  
  


“OK,” Sloan says, and she guides Vince’s hand, and Vince guides himself, and he slides in. It’s not like fucking Eric, not as tight, twice as wet, but it’s good. And then a second later Eric pushes into him, with almost no warning, and it’s spectacular. Eric’s thrusts move Vince forward into Sloan, and she starts to rub herself because Vince is nearly paralyzed with pleasure. For once he forgets to keep trying, and he concentrates between breaths on just making sure he’s taking some of the weight on his own elbows. He comes much too quickly and actually sees disappointment flash on Sloan’s face, before he hears Eric growl, “Don’t worry, he’s not done,” and then he thrusts just right and fire lances up Vince’s spine. Eric knows him so fucking well. Sloan gasps a little, Vince gasps a lot, and after another few thrusts he gets hard again inside of her. His body feels stretched, used in the best way. Eric kisses his shoulders, and Vince kisses Sloan with his eyes closed and for a minute pretends it’s Eric. When Sloan shudders underneath his hand he lets himself come again, and then rests his cheek against Sloan’s while Eric thrusts three, four more times, and then wraps his arms around Vince, draws him up and back, and comes.  
  


He falls back into Eric’s embrace on the bed, turns in and puts his head on Eric’s chest and his arms around him. Vince is shaking, from the effort but maybe from something else, and when Eric’s hands leave him to pull up the blanket Vince clings. Sloan curls around his back, and he hears her and Eric talking softly, affectionately, over his head, but he doesn’t try to make out the words. He just falls asleep.  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


When he wakes up the bed in front of him is empty, but there’s a sturdy familiar arm around his chest. “Damn,” Vince says, turning over, already sure that Eric’s awake. “I  _am_  the girl.”  
  


Eric laughs. “Because you got fucked silly?”  
  


“And I’m getting the morning-after snuggle,” Vince says. He rolls Eric back to the bed and spreads out over him. “Where’s Sloan?”  
  


“In the shower,” he says. “She has actual work things today, I think.” Vince raises an eyebrow. “And, yeah, she might be a little weirded out,” Eric admits.   
  


“By being the other woman?”  
  


“I don’t think she thought this was how it would go down,” Eric says, raising his own eyebrow, and Vince thinks he may be blushing.  
  


“She thought you -” Vince starts, and Eric nods. “Ah. Well, maybe I had some rules,” he says, and Eric grins. “Shut up,” Vince says, and he bites Eric’s shoulder. That leads to some wrestling, a smack with a pillow, and eventually Vince has Eric pinned by the shoulders, sitting up on his thighs. “How is it you’ve had two threesomes and you never get to play?” Vince asks, looking down.  
  


Eric’s laughing. “I’m hot property,” he says. “People get possessive.”  
  


“Hmm.” Vince keeps his hands on Eric’s biceps and leans in, a virtual pushup, to kiss him. And while he does that, he slides his knee between Eric’s legs.  
  


“You’re crushing me,” Eric mutters, and Vince smiles and puts his hands on the bed.  
  


“Better?”  
  


“Uh-huh. What are you -”  
  


“I think you know,” Vince says, kneeling between Eric’s legs, now. He finds the squeeze bottle on the night stand.  
  


Eric clears his throat, and Vince watches want and nervousness chase themselves across his face. “The shower’s off,” he says.  
  


“So?” Vince coats his hand, then his cock. Nice thing about Eric — he doesn’t need much prep. “You afraid she’ll see you naked?”  
  


“I’m afraid -” Eric starts but Vince kisses him, and he knows the wanting has won when Eric pulls his knees up. Vince slicks Eric up and then watches his face while he pushes in, slow but steady, the way he likes it. And this is all about what Eric likes, right now — because yeah, fuck, Vince is a little possessive and he has every right to be. Eric is his and always has been. He hears the bathroom door open and feels Eric tighten under and around him, and he can’t help his groan.  
  


“Wow,” Sloan says, and Vince watches Eric’s eyes widen and focus over his shoulder. He feels suddenly tense. “I wondered,” she says, and sits calmly on the side of the bed, staring down at Eric.  
  


Eric’s face is brilliant red, and Vince wants that to all be from him so he gets going, again. Eric closes his eyes. Vince grunts and lifts one of Eric’s knees up to his shoulder, which isn’t usually how they do this but it makes Sloan catch her breath and Eric’s eyes open again. His hands claw at Vince’s shoulders, and he leaves marks, Vince is sure of it — again, something they don’t usually do — and then he lurches and comes. Vince laughs, a single breath of air, because he wasn’t even touching Eric, and he holds out as long as he can, watching Eric’s eyes flicker with every thrust, until it’s too much and he’s done.  
  


“Oh,” Sloan says, and Vince topples off of Eric and nearly onto the floor. Eric’s steady hand on his arm barely saves him.  
  


“Watch it, hotshot,” he says, and his voice has that perfect airy exhaustion that is exactly what Vince is feeling. Vince sinks onto the bed next to him, laying on his back, content just to breathe.  
  


Sloan’s voice is smooth. “I leave you alone for ten minutes,” she says, and Eric laughs.  
  


“You out?” he asks, and Vince looks up to see her nod.  
  


“Flight to catch,” she says. She leans over, and Vince is sure for a moment that she’s going to kiss Eric, and his stomach clenches. But after an awkward moment of hesitation, her lips find only his forehead, and then a minute later Vince’s cheek. He pats her hair with his fingers as she pulls away, and she smiles. “It was fun, gentlemen,” she says, and then stands up, smoothes out her skirt, and leaves with a pleasantly swinging walk.  
  


“Wow,” Vince says, collapsing back next to Eric.  
  


“Yeah, wow,” Eric says. The bungalow door opens and closes. “Jesus, I think you pulled my groin.”  
  


Vince laughs. “Want me to kiss it and make it better?”  
  


“Don’t make offers you can’t pay up on,” Eric says. He sits up, and Vince stares at his smooth pale back, watches Eric turn to look at the door. He runs his hand up Eric’s spine.  
  


“Hey,” he says, and Eric shrugs. “You think she was really upset?”  
  


“Nah,” he says.  
  


Vince smirks and sits up, drapes himself over Eric’s back. “Not that I blame her for being disappointed,” he says, his lips right next to Eric’s ear. “Who doesn’t want a piece of this, huh?”  
  


“Vince -” Eric says, and he looks back, and Vince smiles and kisses him.  
  


“You were right,” he says. “I am possessive.”   
  


Eric nods, and then kisses him back.


	2. Chapter 2

Eric’s crabby for a couple of days — he really did pull his groin, and seems to believe this is entirely Vince’s fault. Vince finds the whole thing hilarious, particularly when they have a meeting with Ari, who manages ten different jokes at Eric’s expense when they see him on Monday.   
  


“All right, but, seriously, I have the next project,” Ari says, pulling two bound scripts off his desk.  
  


Eric sits forward, and Vince’s stomach twists, but he doesn’t react. The offers haven’t been so great since he came out, with the exception of  _In the Ring_. Vince knows they’re still on thin ice, a bit, and while he’s not that worried — things always work out — it makes Eric twitchy. But Ari’s been crowing for a week about some big mystery project, so Vince picks up his script and checks out the name.  _Wolf Gang_. It’s a script Eric was hyped on a few months ago, based on a true story out of the New Yorker about a German-American internment camp during World War II. “I thought this was dead,” he says.  
  


“Yeah, what gives, Ari? You said no one was gonna touch this.”  
  


“All it takes is one guy,” Ari says, rubbing his hands together. “One magic touch, and suddenly —”  
  


“And suddenly you’re the King Midas of Hollywood? Jesus, Ari, come —”  
  


“Not my touch,” Ari says.  
  


“Then who?”  
  


Ari spreads his hands, like he’s bracing himself against the air and the coming shock. “Clint Eastwood.”  
  


Vince’s jaw drops. He coughs. “No way.”  
  


Eric lets out a shocked little laugh. “Eastwood? Ari, you aren’t fucking us around?”  
  


Ari shakes his head, and he’s smiling so broadly Vince knows it’s for real. “How far down the list?” Eric asks.  
  


“Nope, top billing,” Ari says, and Vince sits back hard against the couch. “He wants you, pal. He saw your work with Cameron, he saw some footage out of Lynch, he wants you.”  
  


Eric swallows so hard Vince can hear it. He looks over. “Did I tell you things would work out?” he says, and Eric laughs, then in one smooth move grabs his face and kisses him. Vince smiles and hears Ari curse.  
  


“You’re the luckiest bastard I know,” Eric says, grinning.  
  


“No, E, that’s you,” Ari says. “Can we talk business now or do you want to try and blind me with the gay a little more?”  
  


They get the details on the Eastwood movie — the studio has agreed to pick it up because with Eastwood, it seems possible to film in sixty-five days — and then stagger out into the hall. “That’s the exact word,” Vince says as they hit the elevator.  
  


“What’s that?”  
  


“Staggered. I feel, like, whoa.”  
  


Eric raises an eyebrow. “You, Mr. Casual, you’re really feeling it, huh?”  
  


Vince looks at him, grabs him by both shoulders and squeezes. “I am,” he says. He leans in, puts his mouth right at Eric’s ear. “And you, my friend, are gonna be really feeling it as soon as we get home.”  
  


Eric snorts. “Easy on the merchandise, huh?” he says. “You already broke me once this week.”  
  


Vince snickers about that as the valet runs for their car. “You have the Midas touch, E. You really do. Everything you pick —”  
  


“Almost everything,” Eric says, and Vince rubs his neck. They don’t talk about past mistakes. “Christ, this is great. We should celebrate.”  
  


“I thought I already made my plans clear for that.”  
  


“You did,” Eric says, “but maybe first you should let me take you to dinner.”  
  


Vince raises an eyebrow. The valet pulls up with their car, and he stares across at Eric as he walks around. Once inside, he says, “A real dinner? Like — a date?”  
  


“Like a date, yeah, I guess,” Eric says. “I’ll even pay.” He puts the car in gear, glances over at Vince. “I’m really gonna get a complex if you say no.”  
  


“I — of course,” Vince says. “Wow, an Eastwood movie and free dinner. This really is a good day, huh?”  
  


Eric laughs. “It’s a great day.”  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


After their dinner date, they call the guys to join them for a celebratory drink, which turns into a few rounds of celebratory drinks, and then they all end up back at Vince and Eric’s place. In fact, they turn the rest of the weekend into a celebration. Sunday night, still nursing hangovers from Saturday’s celebration, they stick to a few beers and pot, and though Johnny cuts out early, Turtle stays over so he can drive Vince around the next day while Eric has meetings.  
  


When Vince wakes up in the morning, Eric isn’t next to him, but the bed is still warm. He goes to the bathroom, then wanders out to the kitchen, where he finds Eric, half asleep, making coffee. Vince slides past him, his hand trailing along Eric’s waist, and he pauses to kiss his neck. He loves Eric like this, casual, easy, still in his boxers and undershirt, completely unwound. It doesn’t hurt that they had pretty spectacular sex the night before. “Hey,” he says, softly, pausing close to him.  
  


Eric smiles. “Yo,” he says. His voice is still sleepy, too. “Coffee?”  
  


“God, please,” Vince says, and he leans back on the island. “When is your meeting?”  
  


“Canceled,” Eric says. “They sent a message this morning. I was just gonna get some reading done.”  
  


“Mm.” Vince knows there’s a little backlog of scripts waiting, but he’s thinking about just putting his arms around Eric and taking him back to bed when Turtle stumbles into the kitchen.  
  


“Coffee?” he asks, sitting down on the other side of the island.  
  


“E’s on it,” Vince says, watching Eric mess with the coffee basket. He takes the whole thing to the trash and dumps it out, then carries the basket to the sink. Vince can tell he’s still sleep-fogged, because he doesn’t bitch at Turtle about leaving the old coffee in the machine, just washes it out and carries it back like he’s on autopilot. He pauses to yawn, then settles the basket back in and looks around.  
  


“Hand me a new pod, baby, can you?” Eric says.  
  


Vince does, then looks up and sees Turtle staring at him. “Baby?” Turtle says.  
  


“What?” Eric says, getting the coffee started. He slumps next to Vince, and Vince rests his hand in the middle of Eric’s back and rubs. Going back to bed is sounding better and better.  
  


“You called him ‘baby,’” Turtle says.  
  


“I did?” Eric looks up at Vince, and Vince nods, then shrugs. He’s a little sorry Turtle’s brought it up, because now Eric will get all analytical about it. “I — huh. I didn’t realize.”  
  


Vince shrugs, again, and Turtle says, “Just don’t move on to honey-pie or sweetie-pants something.” He gets up to get mugs from the cabinet, and Vince tucks his head down close to Eric’s. He still smells like their bed, lemony laundry soap and sex, but Vince can almost hear him thinking.   
  


“I’m still tired,” Vince says, trying to stop the wheels turning. “Let’s go back to bed.”  
  


“I just made coffee,” Eric says, but the hand that was behind Vince on the counter slides over to his hip.  
  


“We can make more later,” Vince says, putting one hand on Eric’s abs. “If you don’t have to be up, I don’t have to. C’mon.”  
  


Eric goes willingly, no surprise, and back in the bedroom Vince takes off his own T-shirt and then snuggles up close to him on the bed. Eric smoothes his hand down Vince’s back, rubs up, down, up, and Vince leans up to kiss him and rocks against Eric’s thigh. “Hm?” Eric says, but he slides his hand into Vince’s sweats all the same, and doesn’t complain when Vince eases off his shorts and rocks against him so they both come before they fall asleep again.  
  


  
  


  
  


Later, when they’re sitting by the pool, Vince working on his tan, Eric working on his reading, Eric looks up and says, “I didn’t mean anything by it.”  
  


“By what?” Vince asks. He’s warm and a little sun-dazed.  
  


“Calling you baby,” Eric says. “I mean, I guess I always called my girlfriends that.”  
  


Vince groans. “E, don’t overthink, all right? It’s fine.”  
  


“Have I done it before?”  
  


Vince shrugs. Mostly just when they’re having sex, though a few times it’s been a casual aside — a hey, baby, when Vince calls in the middle of the afternoon, for instance. Vince sort of likes it. “Yeah, a little,” he says, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. He rolls his head around. His shoulders are starting to feel a little toasty. “Am I burning?”  
  


Eric reaches over, presses one hand to Vince’s shoulder for a moment. “Nah,” he says, but the hand lingers on his back. “You look about done, though.”  
  


“Yeah.” Vince rolls over to his back, and Eric’s hand travels with him, so it’s resting on his chest, his fingers about an inch from Vince’s nipple. “You going in, too?” Vince asks, wiggling just a little to move Eric’s hand out of neutral territory.  
  


Eric snorts. “No way,” he says. “I’m done, I’m worn out. Last night and this morning and that’s all you get from me, all right? I’m not seventeen anymore.”  
  


“Mm.” Vince closes his eyes. “You were hot at seventeen.”  
  


Eric’s hand moves away, just for a second, then falls again, like a little slap on Vince’s shoulder. Vince cracks one eye open. “You can’t make me jealous of myself,” Eric says, “but nice try. Go inside and put a shirt on.”  
  


“All right,” Vince says. He sits up, stretches his arms up over his head and leans into that stretch, feeling the sun and muscle heat in his arms. It’d be a nice show for the neighbors, if they had any neighbors close enough to see them. He hopes Eric’s watching, but when he opens his eyes, Eric has his sunglasses on, reviewing the script again. Vince brings his arms down slowly and rubs his shoulder. “Yo, hand me that towel?” Eric does it without looking up or over, which makes Vince smirk. He drapes the towel around his shoulders, pats at the thin line of sweat near his hairline as he stands. Eric doesn’t move, not even when Vince steps closer, so Vince drops his hand onto Eric’s shoulder and kisses him, just quick, on the mouth.  
  


“Thanks, baby,” he says and then dodges away into the house.  
  


  
  


They don’t talk about it, but over the next week, Vince can tell Eric’s being more careful. He’s watching what he says. So Vince keeps digging at Eric, just a little, just to see what will happen.  
  


They go to lunch on Thursday at Mimi’s. Vince has to meet the guys there, because he had a fitting early in the morning — early enough that Turtle didn’t want to drive him and even Eric slept in, so the studio sent a car. When he gets to the restaurant, Eric’s standing at the front, tapping on his Blackberry. “Hey, babe,” Vince says, tapping his shoulder.  
  


Eric smirks. “You can can the names, Turtle’s not even here.”  
  


“Mm.” The hostess leads them to a booth, and Vince slides in next to Eric instead of taking the facing seat.   
  


Eric sets his Blackberry down. “You expecting anyone else?”  
  


“Nope,” Vince says, leaning back in the booth, making certain his arm is pressed against Eric’s arm, his thigh against Eric’s thigh. “What?” he says, his best innocent act.  
  


Eric rolls his eyes. But he also plays along, or, at least, he doesn’t crawl under the table to make sure he’s on the other side, decorously outside of Vince’s grasp. He turns back to his Blackberry while Vince makes up his mind about food.  
  


“Sloan says hi,” Eric says, finally putting the Blackberry away.  
  


“Yeah? How’s she? We should get together again.”  
  


Eric raises an eyebrow, and Vince clarifies, “For dinner or something. That was fun.”  
  


“She’s in Italy for a while. But I’ll tell her.”  
  


“You guys talk pretty regularly?”  
  


He shrugs. “Not really. I guess, maybe an e-mail a week or so, just how things are going. Her business has really taken off, they’ve got some really hot places.”  
  


“We should go,” Vince says, putting his arm along the back of the booth. “What are you having?” he asks, and listens very carefully so that when the waiter comes, he orders for both of them. Eric kicks him under the table, so Vince gives the waiter a big, winning smile. “Bring two spoons for the soup, can you? He always wants a taste.”  
  


After he leaves, Vince turns to look at Eric, who’s staring across the table and tearing up a piece of bread. “What is your deal?” Eric asks.  
  


“What do you mean?” Eric pauses in his tearing to glance at Vince, a pure Eric glance of skepticism, you’ve-gotta-be-shitting-me. “I like this dating stuff,” Vince says. “We never got to do that, you know? It’s supposed to be fun.”  
  


“Fun.” Vince watches him struggling not to respond quickly and bitterly; instead, after a moment of awkward silence, he watches Eric make himself relax a little. He still sits ramrod straight in the booth and keeps both of his hands on top of the table anytime anyone comes by, but he doesn’t pull away or make a face when Vince snags his wrist and brings a bite of bread up to his own mouth, and he even thanks the waiter for the extra spoon. It’s not perfect, but it’s something, Vince thinks, and he grins a little when Eric puts a hand on his back, low, to lead him out of the restaurant.  
  


Outside it’s warm and bright, so Eric has the top down in his car, and Vince leans his seat back a little as they drive. “You really feel like you missed out?” Eric says, and it takes Vince a second to track back the conversation.  
  


“I dunno,” Vince says. “I mean, I guess — I think it would’ve been nice to do some of that stuff. You were always so big on it, you did that with all your girls, but I never did, really.” He shrugs.  
  


“More charm than romance, huh?”  
  


“Something like that,” Vince says. “And, you know, it’s kinda fun.”  
  


“What, winding me up?”  
  


Vince smiles and turns his head to look at Eric’s profile. “That, too,” he says. He slides his sunglasses up. “It’d be nice if I could take you out, show you off, a little, without you getting all weird about it.”  
  


“Weird?” It’s Vince’s turn to do the eye-roll, to offer the sigh. Eric smirks. “All right, maybe a little weird. I guess it’s all kind of different for me. Like, people look at you and they look at me, and… I dunno, Vince.”  
  


“And they say, there’s two guys who got it good.”  
  


Eric shakes his head. “Half of ‘em, they look at me, they say, ‘There’s one lucky bastard.’ And that’s the nice ones, Vince. Most people, they think I’m fucking you for the fame and money.” Vince reaches over, rests his hand on Eric’s shoulder. He’s heard little rumblings like that, too. People think he’s dumb and Eric’s goldigging. People, Vince thinks, can go to hell.  
  


“So fuck ‘em,” Vince says. “You want me to give all my money away or something, start doing small theater?”  
  


Eric snorts. “I’d leave you,” he says, and Vince laughs. “Seriously, though, can you understand why I’m not so hot on everyone knowing everything about us?”  
  


“I guess,” Vince says. “But at some point, E, you’ve just gotta do what you want. People are gonna talk forever.”  
  


He nods, but Vince isn’t sure he’s gotten through. Still, he knows the way Eric works. Sometimes the idea just needs to rest a while, work its way back through his head. He squeezes Eric’s shoulder. “And in the meantime,” he says, “I promise never to blow you in public.”  
  


Eric laughs. “There’s a load off.”  
  


“I also promise that if you get us home by 3:30, I  _will_  blow you in the privacy of our own home.”  
  


He feels Eric’s shoulder twitch, just a quick spasm, and watches him fighting a grin. “Why 3:30?” he asks, taking a corner a little sharply.  
  


“Because Oprah’s on at four,” he says, and Eric glances over and nearly hits a bicyclist. Vince waits until they’re back in their lane, then says, “Clooney and Soderbergh are on, live from the set.”  
  


“I worry about how much of a girl you’re becoming,” Eric says, but he drives fast the rest of the way and curses when they hit construction.   
  


Vince gives him credit for trying, after he makes sure the TiVo is set to record Oprah.  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Filming starts for Wolf Gang about ten weeks after the meeting with Ari. It’s almost all soundstage work, towns set up to look like the 40s, everything in browns and grays. Vince doesn’t mind, because the wardrobe is comfortable and he doesn’t have to travel too much. He does have to spend a lot o time on set, though. Eastwood films fast, which means fewer weeks on set overall, but when he’s there, he’s working, scene after scene after scene. The experience is intense, and when Vince isn’t working, he’s exhausted. Some nights he just sleeps in his trailer. Eric’s more comfortable about PDA and all that, but something about walking out of Vince’s trailer in the mornings seems to bother him — “it kind of undermines my authority here,” he says, and though Vince points out that it’s not like everyone doesn’t know they’re fucking, Eric won’t budge. So when he stays on set, he sleeps alone, which isn’t great, but he’s usually too tired to care. When things wrap early on a Friday, five weeks in, Vince gets a car from the studio to the house, tired of sleeping alone.  
  


There’s an unfamiliar Mercedes parked out front, next to Eric’s car, and Vince rolls his eyes. Of course, the day he’s done early Eric’s got business. He pushes in to the house and follows the sound of conversation into the kitchen. Sloan and Eric are sitting at the table, across from each other, Sloan’s hands clasped in front of her and Eric’s just drawing back. When Eric looks up, there’s nothing but guilt in his eyes.  
  


“Vince,” he says, his voice throaty.  
  


“Uh, hey,” Vince says, and he plasters on the same cool calm mask he’s been using to get through scenes for the last two days. “Hey, Sloan.”  
  


“Hi,” she says. Her voice sounds too high, and on closer inspection Vince can see she’s been crying. He swallows and turns to the fridge, a hundred ideas of exactly what he’s just walked in on spinning through his head. She wants him back, he thinks, she hasn’t stopped thinking about him. He looks at the bottles in the fridge and nothing sounds good at all, particularly over the hum of another idea: she’s here to end the affair.  
  


He turns back to the table with a beer in one hand. “Everything OK?” he makes himself ask.  
  


Eric’s looking between him and Sloan like someone’s gonna throw a punch. “Not really,” he says after a minute.  
  


Vince tries to take a drink, but he hasn’t opened the bottle. It’s a twist off and the bite of the cap in his palm is good, refreshing. He turns it sharp side in, holds it so he can squeeze it if he needs to siphon pain away from his face. “So what’s up?” he asks, leaning back against the counter.  
  


“Well,” Eric starts, “see, Sloan’s — she’s just stopped by, uh, she wanted to talk, and we were -”  
  


“I’m pregnant,” Sloan says, and Vince squeezes the bottlecap by mistake and nearly drops his beer.  
  


“What?”  
  


She nods. “Four months,” she says, and Vince can do that math pretty easily.  
  


“You mean, we,” he starts, and he points from her to himself and back. And then Sloan looks at Eric, and Eric clears his throat and seems to be speaking to the floor.  
  


“It could be either one of us,” he says.  
  


Vince sets the beer down on the counter. “But that night — I mean, unless I’ve got anatomy completely fucked up -” and then he looks at Eric and understands that there’s something else that’s happened here. “OK,” he says. “Huh.”  
  


“Vince -” Eric starts, but Vince waves him quiet. One thing at a time.  
  


He looks at Sloan. “So what now?” he asks.  
  


She shrugs, and wipes her eyes delicately. “I waited until — I wanted to be sure about what I was going to do.”  
  


“And since you’re here, I think I can guess,” Vince says. She nods, and he presses the bottlecap into the tender center of his palm with two fingers. “Wow. Uh,” but he can’t think of anything else to say.  
  


“Look,” Sloan says, and she puts her hands flat on the table and stands up. Vince looks for a difference in her body, but he can’t see anything. “I’ll let you talk. I’m back in town — I’m going to stay put now, for a while.” She looks at Eric, but he’s still staring at the floor. There’s a tenderness in her eyes that makes Vince’s stomach turn. He doesn’t move as she walks out, even though it means she has to brush up next to him to get to the door.  
  


When the front door closes, he turns to the counter, picks up his beer, and drinks it as fast as he can. The label comes back sticky and red, and he looks down and sees his hand is bleeding in two arcs. He stares at this and hears Eric’s chair slide, then Eric’s feet move. Eric stands across the island from him.  
  


“What the -”  
  


“Tell me what happened,” Vince says, still looking down at his hand.  
  


Eric clears his throat. “We ought to get something on that,” he says, and then Vince looks up. He’s through acting; he lets everything show, and Eric flinches. “Uh, in the morning,” he says, “you were still asleep, and — when we woke up, she was next to me. It was like habit, I guess, I just -”  
  


“You fucked her,” Vince says, and Eric nods. “While I was right there next to you.” He takes a second to think about what that means — that Eric was so quiet about it that Vince didn’t wake up, that he was that sneaky. That they both were. “You fucking asshole,” he hisses.  
  


“It wasn’t a big deal,” Eric says, and Vince shakes his head. He pushes past Eric and walks out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom, and he hears Eric following him. In the bathroom, he turns on the water and puts his bleeding hand under the tap, and it hurts, suddenly, all of the numbness is gone. He grabs his wrist and bends close to the sink.  
  


“Hey,” Eric says, and his hand lands on Vince’s shoulder.   
  


Vince shakes him off. “Don’t fucking touch me.” His hand is burning. It’s on fire. It’s the worst pain he’s ever felt. He rubs one wrist over his eyes.  
  


Eric hands him a towel. “Let’s go,” he says. “You need to go to the doctor, get stitches or something.”  
  


“I’m not going anywhere.” The water swirls pink in the sink. He grits his teeth. “Was it just that once?”  
  


“Of course it was just — Jesus, you think I would cheat on you?”  
  


“I think you did,” Vince says.  
  


Eric walks out, and Vince keeps staring at his hand. Only one of the cuts is really still bleeding, and he pulls his hand up and inspects it. The cut is deepest at the base of his palm. Dark blood wells in thick drops, the skin too far separated to be soothed. He grabs the hand towel and soaks it with cold water and then presses it to the cut, walks out into the bedroom, and sits on the bed with his hand in his lap. He can hear Eric talking to someone in the hall. Maybe Sloan’s back. Maybe she knows exactly what she wants, maybe she’s here to get it. “She can fucking have you!” he yells.  
  


Eric ducks his head in, and he’s on his phone. “Yeah, thanks,” he says, and snaps it closed. “Vince -” he starts, and Vince so doesn’t want to hear whatever’s about to come from Eric’s mouth that he takes his own cell phone out of his pocket and hurls it at him. He was an okay baseball player, once upon a time, but not with his left hand; the phone connects with the doorjamb and breaks apart, one of the pieces flying back at Vince. Eric flinches back into the hall.  
  


“Jesus,” he says, walking back in. “You’re a fucking danger to yourself.”  
  


“Right now, I’m more of a danger to you, trust me,” Vince says. His hand hurts every time he breathes. “Get the fuck out.”  
  


Eric crosses his arms. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  


Vince wishes for something else to throw. Maybe the cordless phone. Maybe the nightstand. “Don’t you have to meet Sloan somewhere?”  
  


“Why would — I called Dr. Meyer,” Eric says, “that’s who was on the phone. To come over and look at your hand.”  
  


“It’s fine,” Vince says. “I’m fine. You go.”  
  


“Would you just fucking listen to me, just for a second?”  
  


Vince wraps the towel more tightly around his hand, which hurts. “So talk,” he says.  
  


Eric walks in and sits next to him, but not close. They both seem to be staring at the towel. Eric reaches over, and Vince backs away but Eric grunts, frustration, businesslike, and takes Vince’s wrist into his hand. He unwraps the towel and looks at the cut, then finds a clean spot on the towel and rewraps his hand, expertly, tightly. It’s never a surprise to Vince when Eric can do something well.  
  


“You should keep it elevated,” Eric says.  
  


“I’m not going to bleed to death from a half-inch cut,” Vince says, but he crosses the arm over his chest, his fingers holding his shoulder. “Are you done?”  
  


“I was going to tell you,” Eric says, and Vince snorts. “Seriously, you know me.”  
  


“I thought I did,” Vince says. He grits it out. He’s pretty sure that was a line from  _Queens Boulevard_ , because it tastes familiar.  
  


“But it — I don’t know. It didn’t seem like a big deal. I mean, you guys did it.”  
  


“While you were fucking me,” Vince says, “or don’t you remember? It was a threesome, E, not a duet. Not special couple’s time.”  
  


Eric sighs. “The next morning, you — I was going to — and you were kind of weird about the whole thing. Remember? You were feeling possessive. I thought I’d just wait, I’d mention it later. But, I don’t know. It just, it wasn’t a big deal.”  
  


“It’s a really big deal now,” Vince says. “It’s possibly the hugest deal of our lives. So, good call on that.” He closes his eyes. “Fuck,” he says. “Fucking fuck, E.”  
  


“Don’t make this into a fight,” Eric says.  
  


“Don’t -” Vince squeezes his own shoulder. “You fall in love with everyone you sleep with,” he says. “Everyone. Name me one person -”  
  


“I’m not in love with Sloan,” Eric says. He gets up from the bed, and when Vince opens his eyes he’s pacing. “Jesus Christ, are we really having this conversation?”  
  


“You think about her,” Vince says, “you think about her and you liked fucking her and you want to do it again.”  
  


“Vince -”  
  


“You would rather be fucking her than me,” Vince says.  
  


“Right now, I’d rather be fucking  _anyone_ ,” Eric yells.  
  


Vince flinches. “Don’t let me stop you,” he says, and it takes work to keep his voice steady. “Not that I have so far.”  
  


Eric stops in front of him. His eyes are wide and wild, both of his hands are in the air. For a moment, Vince thinks maybe Eric’s going to hit him; maybe Eric’s going to strangle him. Maybe Eric’s going to grab him. And then Eric clenches his hands and turns away, and Vince is staring at the slope of his shoulders. His own chest is pounding, every beat sending a flare of pain into his hand. He can’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.  
  


When Eric turns around, his face is completely blank, completely cold. “If you still want me to leave,” he says, his voice reasonable and even and so fucking businesslike, “then I’m gonna call Drama to come hang with you until the doctor shows up.”  
  


Vince blinks. Something about Eric’s tone makes Vince want to apologize, to reach out. He doesn’t want to deal with the doctor alone. But he can act brave and resolute. “Call him,” he says.  
  


Eric nods, slowly, then leaves the room. Vince lays back on the bed, keeping his arm up, and blows out a smooth stream of air. “Fuck,” he whispers to thin air. “How did this happen?”  
  


The doctor asks him the same question, but he doesn’t have a good answer. The cut requires two thin stitches. Dr. Meyer wants to take him to his clinic to treat it, but Vince isn’t going anywhere, he makes that clear, so he gets a shot in the ball of his hand and then a couple of pills that make his head spin and droop. After Meyer leaves he curls up in his bed and falls first into a gray-green fog, then finally into something like sleep. Eric is long gone.  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


He wakes up to the sound of the house phone ringing. His hand hurts and his head hurts and his mouth is like tar. The clock says it’s eight o’clock, which means he slept 10 hours. He stumbles into the bathroom, brushes his teeth and swallows a pill, then goes out to the kitchen.  
  


“Morning,” Johnny says. “Wondered when you were getting up.”  
  


Vince nods and sits across from him. He rubs his face and then winces because his hand hurts. “I’m gonna be late,” he mutters. Call today is at nine. “Fuck, I feel like shit.”  
  


“I’ll make you some eggs,” Johnny says, getting up from the table. “You just need some protein, bro.”  
  


“Maybe,” Vince says, and then he rests his head on his arm. “Where’s E?”  
  


“He’s, uh, I think he had some business or something,” Johnny says. “You guys having some kind of fight?”  
  


“Yeah, maybe,” Vince says. “Has he been here today?”  
  


“No,” Johnny says, “but he called. A minute ago.”  
  


Vince’s throat feels dry. He expected Eric to be here, back. Eric doesn’t usually run from a fight. “Should I call him back?”  
  


“Nah, he was just, uh, he wanted to let you know Turtle’s going to pick you up for work.”  
  


Vince closes his eyes. Eric usually drives him in, because he likes to be on set when the first team is working. He likes to be on set when Vince is working, really, and Vince likes that, too. It’s nice, he feels watched over. “He’s with Turtle?” he asks. Are they dividing up friends already?  
  


“I think he just talked to him this morning. He had him running some errands or something. Getting you a new phone?”   
  


Johnny shoves eggs back and forth in the pan and Vince doesn’t have the heart to tell him that food doesn’t sound good at all. Nothing really sounds good. “I’m gonna take a shower,” Vince says.  
  


He goes back to the bedroom. It’s a mess, blankets tangled, blood on his pillow, pieces of his cell phone still scattered on the floor. Looking at it, Vince feels sad and lonely and ashamed. He’s not this guy. They aren’t this couple. Eric doesn’t cheat and Sloan’s a good girl, and they didn’t have any rules going in. He picks up the house phone from the bedside stand. He’ll call Eric and Eric will come home, and they’ll figure this out. He’s not mad, anymore, he just wants things to be OK. After all, they’ve got a lot to talk about. He never can remember Eric’s cell phone number, just knows the speed dial for it on his cell, so he hits *69 to dial the last number back, rubbing his hurt palm up and down his thigh.  
  


“Hello?”  
  


It takes him a minute to catch his breath. “Sloan?”  
  


“Vince?”  
  


Vince closes his eyes. He puts everything he can into keeping his voice light, steady. “Is E there?”  
  


“He just left,” she says. “Vince, he -”  
  


“That’s fine,” Vince says, “thanks.” He hangs up and stares at the phone, then stands up and walks back to the kitchen. Johnny looks at him with one eyebrow raised.  
  


“You OK?”  
  


“He spent the night with Sloan,” Vince says. He sets the phone down on the counter and notices the false surprise on Johnny’s face. “Knock it off, you knew.”  
  


“He called,” Johnny says. “I saw the number on the caller ID.”   
  


“Christ,” Vince says. His legs feel unsteady. He grabs the counter. “Oh Jesus Christ, he really is fucking her.”   
  


“Come on, it’s E,” Johnny says. “Sit down, all right?”  
  


Vince takes his seat again at the table, just doing what he’s told. “I — I didn’t think —” he says, and Johnny says, “Of course you didn’t.”  
  


Johnny sets his plate down with such tenderness that Vince feels like something’s breaking behind his ribs. “It’s gonna be all right, man,” he says. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.” Johnny sits next to him and puts his hand on Vince’s shoulder, and Vince knows that should help, that he should feel a little less hollow. Instead all he’s thinking of are the past few weeks, when he hasn’t been home every night, when Eric could have been anywhere. “Come on, eat something and I’ll drive you over,” Johnny says. “You can talk to him on set.”  
  


Vince nods. He manages a few mouthfuls of egg and whatever Johnny gives him to drink. It feels like grade school again, Johnny convincing him to go to school after some particularly disastrous run-in with the neighborhood bullies. Johnny used to walk him to school, when he didn’t have a gig to get to, and Vince used to feel so safe standing next to his tall, swaggering brother. And then Eric would be waiting at the steps or by their classroom, and Vince never had to worry.   
  


“Gonna be all right, bro, you’ll see,” Johnny says. “Just a big misunderstanding, I’ll bet you.”  
  


Vince showers and gets dressed, carefully, because his hand is starting to really throb again. When he gets to the set, he finds out the director already knows about his hand, and a medic is waiting in his trailer to evaluate him. He’s torn out one of the stitches.  
  


“Do you want something for the pain?” the medic asks.  
  


“Not while I’m working,” Vince says.  
  


She stitches the cut closed while Vince grits his teeth and looks away. It hurts in a cold, clear way that brings tears to his eyes. He curses, and Johnny says, “Jesus,” and then walks out of the trailer. Vince bites his lip and the medic apologizes and pats the back of his hand.  
  


“Did your doctor give you any post care instructions?” she asks, and Vince shrugs. That’s an Eric detail, he wants to tell her.  
  


“I was awfully tired,” he says instead, and doesn’t have to work very hard to pull up an exhausted smile. “Can you tell me what to do?”  
  


“Sure,” she says, and lists a few suggestions about medication and temperature and working while wrapping white gauze around his palm, over the loop of his thumb. “Just be careful how much strain you put on it. Keep the bandage on, that should help.”  
  


“Thank you,” he says sincerely, even though he’s not concentrating at all. “I appreciate it.” The trailer door opens and Vince looks up, hopes it’s Johnny again, someone, anyone who can take notes about this. It’s Eric.  
  


“What happened?” he asks, and Vince realizes he’s talking to the medic.  
  


“Just tore a stitch out,” she says, her voice cheery. She secures the bandage. “Don’t worry, he’s gonna be fine.” Oh, Vince thinks, watching her beam at Eric. Sometimes he forgets that everyone recognizes Eric now, and not just as his manager. It’s suddenly very important to him that no one gets that they’re fighting.  
  


He puts on the best silly-me smile he’s got. “Think I caught it on something.” He waves his now-bandaged hand. “All better.”  
  


“Good,” Eric says. His voice is still formal and stiff, and he stands back by the door while the medic gathers up her kit. She gives Eric the same care instructions — “don’t get it wet, try not to let him flex his fingers out too much,” — and then hurries outside.   
  


Vince drops his smile.  
  


“How’s your hand?” Eric asks.  
  


“It hurts,” Vince says.  
  


Eric nods. He’s looking at the table or Vince’s hand or the newspaper, Vince can’t tell. “You get your phone from Turtle?” His tone is flat; he could be a crew member, he could be a messenger. He could be reading lines.   
  


“Not yet,” Vince says. “Speaking of phones, here’s a funny thing. I talked to Sloan this morning.”  
  


Eric looks up and rolls his eyes. “We’re gonna do this again now?” he asks. “Right here?”  
  


“You spent the night with her!” Vince says. “You left last night and went right over to her place, is that it?”  
  


“I went to the fucking bar,” Eric says. “And she called to see what had happened — she was worried about us, of all things — and when she offered I went over there. I slept on her couch. Unless you think it would’ve been better for me to check into a hotel, so we could be reading about that on TMZ this morning.”  
  


“You should have come home to me,” Vince says.  
  


“Christ, now I’m supposed to read minds?” Eric snaps. “You were pretty clear about where you wanted me.”  
  


“Yeah, I thought so, too,” Vince says. “I thought I was pretty clear about not wanting you at fucking Sloan’s place.”  
  


“She’s alone, OK? She’s pregnant and she’s alone,” Eric says. “Get a fucking grip, man, you and me, we aren’t the only thing happening right now.”  
  


“Goddammit, Eric!” Vince yells, and he throws his hands down on the tabletop and then jerks back, his hand blazing.  
  


Eric’s next to him in a flash, his hands on Vince’s arm. He turns his hand over for Eric to look at and he rests his head on the table. Eric’s touch is sturdy. “Maybe you should go home, today,” Eric says. “Do they have you on anything for this?”  
  


“Pills,” Vince says, not even sure if he brought them along. “But not while I’m working.”  
  


“I’m going to talk to the AD,” Eric says. “They already moved some stuff around, maybe Eastwood can film around you today.”  
  


“I’m fine,” Vince mutters, pulling his hand back from Eric. He’s tired and he doesn’t want to go home, doesn’t want to sit and think. He can work, at least he can do that. That’s within his control. “It’s — it’s a little cut. E, I’m fine, I just —” and he looks over. Having Eric this close makes him want to fight or apologize. It makes him want to tear his stitches out with his teeth. “Maybe you could leave?”  
  


Eric looks like he’s been struck by something, but he gets it together fast, then he nods. “If that’s what you want,” he says. Vince nods, and Eric backs away. He stops at the doorway. “I didn’t sleep with her.”  
  


Vince can’t look at him. “Not right now, OK?”  
  


Eric walks out, again, and that’s the worst thing Vince has been through all morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Work goes fine. They’re filming some outdoor stuff, walking around in a parking lot, and someone mentions he could be wearing driving gloves so that solves most of the bandage problems. He’s careful with his hand, and equally careful not to look like he’s being careful, which takes a lot of energy. When they wrap he goes back to his trailer and takes the antibiotic Dr. Meyer prescribed and a medic comes over and gives him a shot, some kind of pain killer that makes his head feel light. He pulls all of the shades and falls asleep with his head and hand under his pillow.   
  


He wakes up ten hours later, his mouth dry and his head still foggy and his hand sending hot throbs up him arm. At first he thinks that woke him, but then he hears a low, familiar voice in the trailer’s cabin: Eric. He walks out and sees Eric sitting at the table, just closing his phone. “Uh, hey,” Eric says.  
  


Vince just stares. “Am I late?”  
  


“No, don’t worry,” Eric says. “The medic said you might be groggy, uh, so everything got pushed back. I talked with him, you’re not due until later.”  
  


“You woke me up to tell me I don’t have to get up early?”  
  


“No,” Eric says. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m sorry.”  
  


“Whatever,” Vince says, and walks into the bathroom. He hits the head, brushes his teeth, thinks about taking a shower just to put off talking to Eric. What’s he even doing here? Christ, it’s not like anything’s changed since yesterday. Vince still has a job to do and he can’t do it if Eric’s gonna be around to fuck with his head. He thought he was clear about that yesterday. But then again, he thought he was clear about a lot of stuff.  
  


He walks back into the cramped living room and takes a seat on the couch, not at the table with Eric, even though he half wants to. His hand shoots little sparks when he moves, so he tries to stay very still. “What are you doing here?”  
  


Eric shrugs and fidgets with his phone. “I just wanted to, uh, check on you. Make sure you were OK, after yesterday.”  
  


“I’m fine,” Vince says. “The medic was here last night, I’m not gonna miss any time on set, OK, so if this is a management call —”  
  


“This isn’t about management,” Eric says. His voice is soft, tired. “It’s about us. It’s about, I don’t like going home and trying to fall asleep without you there, and I — I don’t — we need to talk, OK? You can’t just kick me out and then, like, not come home.”  
  


Vince rubs his neck. “I don’t want to talk about this right now,” he says. “I honestly don’t. I don’t even know what to think.”  
  


“I know,” Eric says. “But we — we can’t just — Vin, it’s been killing me, since yesterday. I had myself convinced that this wasn’t a big deal, because — because it shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t mean anything, right? That was the whole point.”  
  


“But you didn’t tell me,” Vince says. “You fucked your ex-girlfriend and you didn’t tell me.”  
  


Eric winces. He really does look tired. “I — I guess, I sort of thought, all along, maybe you knew,” Eric says. “I kept thinking, no way he’s sleeping through this, and then after, when you were all, uh, jealous, I thought maybe that was part of it. And I sort of let myself forget that it was even, that it had even happened.”  
  


“You forgot. You. Are you — are you some kind of pod person or something?” Vince asks. “The last time you had a threesome, you practically went crazy because you snuggled with some other girl, now you’re trying to tell me you fucked your ex-girlfriend and it’s not a big deal?”   
  


“I’m trying to tell you it didn’t mean anything,” Eric says. “This was all your fucking idea, and now —”  
  


“Shut up,” Vince says. “It was never my idea for you to fuck her. Why in the world would I —”  
  


“You suggested it,” Eric says. “You set the whole thing up, Vin, what did you think was going to happen?”  
  


“I thought — “ and he stops right before he can say what he really thought: He thought he’d win. He thought they’d have this thing with Sloan, and it would be fun, but it would also show Eric, once-and-for-all, that he’d made the right choice. That she wasn’t the girl for him. And now, thanks to his brilliant idea, she’s maybe having Eric’s baby. Vince swallows. “Look, tell me something,” he says. “If the baby’s yours — what are you going to do?”  
  


“What do you mean, what am I going to do?” Eric says.  
  


“Are you going to marry her?”  
  


Eric laughs, like he’s startled. “Seriously, did you hit your head or something? I’m taken.” Vince keeps staring at him, and Eric’s expression turns serious. He stands up, then kneels in front of Vince, so they’re on eye-level. “Vin,” he says, his voce quiet and deep, “I swear to you, you’re the only person in the world I want to be with. Ever. I wouldn’t leave you — I wouldn’t ever leave you, unless I thought it was what you wanted.”  
  


He puts his hands on Vince’s knees, and Vince looks down at them, at the ring Eric always wears, the one Vince bought him. The thing is, it’s easier to believe that Eric wouldn’t hurt him than it is to believe he would. He swallows again.  
  


“I’m sorry,” Eric says. “I should have told you about Sloan. I should have woken you up. Fuck. I don’t know. I didn’t want it to mean anything.”  
  


“Did it?” Vince asks, looking right at Eric. He feels like he can ask this with a clear head, now. He’s spent his life being casual about sex, so he should be able to believe that Eric can do it, too. Eric’s been with him every day for almost all of his life, and that has to count. And the threesome was Vince’s idea. And he just, really, doesn’t want to fight. He doesn’t want to fight at all.  
  


“It meant something to me because it meant something to you,” Eric says. His eyes are clear, his expression full of everything Vince is feeling — misery, worry, love. “I never want to hurt you. Never.”  
  


“OK,” Vince says.  
  


“OK?”  
  


Vince nods.  
  


“All of this, and you’re — now you’re OK?”  
  


“I don’t know what else to say. I love you and it’s fine,” Vince says. “It’s done with. I forgive you.”  
  


“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eric says, and he puts his head down on Vince’s knee, and his breath is heavy and wet.  
  


“Hey,” Vince says, startled. He puts his hands on Eric’s shoulders, pets his neck and hair, bends to kiss the side of his head. “Hey, E, it’s OK, I mean it.” He’s seen Eric cry before, but always over girls, after drinks and horrible break-ups. The last time he cried, it was over his mother’s death. Vince has never been the cause, and he feels weirdly proud to know he can be, and strangely humble. Eric’s crying is silent but sharp, coming in fast waves, shoulders jerking. “Hey, no crying,” Vince says, gently, and Eric nods and pulls back just a little. “Nothing to be sad about here.”  
  


Eric wipes his eyes. “Do you get at all that I don’t know what I’d do without you?” he says, his voice shaky. Vince offers him a hand, and Eric gets up, then sits next to him on the couch.  
  


“You’d make Turtle a star,” Vince says, putting an arm around him. “And speaking of, if we ever break up I want custody of him.”  
  


“No,” Eric says. “You get Drama by default, man, leave me something.”  
  


“That’s what I’m saying,” Vince says. “I get Johnny, it’s only fair Turtle comes too, or he’ll be lonely.”  
  


“Huh,” Eric says. His face still has splotches of red, but he looks OK. He takes a few deep breaths, and when he speaks his voice is steady. “I don’t know. Joint custody, maybe? I’ll take them to the zoo and for ice cream.”  
  


“We should write this down,” Vince says, and Eric laughs. He reaches over Vince for a Kleenex and blows his nose spectacularly.   
  


“So, all right,” Vince says. “No crying, you’re gonna be a father.”  
  


Eric laughs. “Or you are,” he says. “Jesus, I guess — we have some stuff to talk about, huh?”  
  


“Yeah, but not now,” Vince says. “OK? Enough talking for one day. Maybe for one week.”  
  


“Maybe for one movie,” Eric says, and Vince nods. “All right. As long as we’re good —”  
  


“We’re fine,” Vince says, and they leave it at that.  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


A rumor starts going around, after Vince’s groggy morning, after the news about his hand spreads far and wide, that something’s wrong. They’ve been down that road before — his summer of drinking and fucking up isn’t that far behind them — so Vince gets back on best behavior. He’s early every day for the remaining twenty days of shooting. He sends Turtle out for donuts for everyone when there’s a screw up with craft services; he sends flowers and a year’s supply of diapers to the AD’s wife when they have a baby; he spends some extra time running lines with his co-star, a seventeen-year-old from Florida whose last co-star was animated. He works hard and in the evenings he has quiet dinners or breakfasts in his trailer with the guys, and then he locks the door and Eric stays with him.   
  


During all that time, they don’t talk about Sloan. Vince knows Eric’s in touch with her, a call here and there, e-mails back and forth — but Eric doesn’t leave his side for more than a lunch with Ari, so Vince doesn’t worry what’s going on. Besides, there’s the baby. Vince tries not to think about that too much, but sometimes, a little worm of dread shivers in his stomach as he thinks about a baby with Sloan’s hair and Eric’s eyes, thinks about Eric holding a newborn son or daughter, thinks about what it could mean for them. It’s not that he thinks Eric would leave him — he doesn’t, he’s absolutely confident that Eric loves him. It’s more that he’s not sure he can stand to share him with Sloan, and he knows that if Eric and Sloan have a baby, that’s what the rest of his life will look like.  
  


He tries not to think about it, and he mostly succeeds.  
  


After three weeks, he’s done except for post-production stuff, and he makes an appearance at the cast party with Eric, drinks nothing and smiles at everyone he’s supposed to, and then they leave together in Eric’s car. Overall, nearly a perfect production, all things considered.  
  


“Now that you’re done, you wanna get out of town or something?” Eric asks, pulling into the drive. “Bermuda?”  
  


“Maybe we should talk about Sloan,” Vince says. He glances over. “I know you’ve been talking to her. I’m glad. How’s she doing?”  
  


“She’s all right,” he says. “She’s thinking about moving back in with her parents.”  
  


“Wow,” Vince says. He remembers Sloan’s parents — her stepmother with the hungry eyes, her father with the hungry checkbook. “You think that’s a good idea?”  
  


Eric shrugs. He reaches over and rubs Vince’s shoulder. It hurts almost as much as it feels good, because he’s so tense. The last few days were all death scenes, falling, running, dodging, dying. He’s fucking worn out. “You really want to talk about Sloan now?”  
  


“Maybe not tonight,” Vince agrees. “But — we should see her. I mean, both of us. Right?”  
  


“Yeah,” Eric agrees. “If you’re ready, I’ll set it up.”  
  


“I’m ready,” Vince says, even though he’s sure it’s a lie. “As long as you’re coming with me.”  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


The next day, Eric takes a seat next to him on the couch. “We’re meeting Sloan Friday for lunch,” he says.  
  


“Please tell me not the Thai restaurant,” Vince says, and Eric smirks.  
  


“You’re not allowed to drink, wherever we go,” he says.  
  


“How is she?”  
  


“Fine,” he says. “And, uh, actually, she had some news.”  
  


“Yeah? Let me guess — you’re gonna be a father.” It makes sense. Eric always wanted kids, even when they were teenagers. Well, he didn’t want to be a father when they were teenagers, but —   
  


“No, jackass, you are,” Eric says, and he laughs. “Congratulations.”  
  


“Me?” Vince feels a quick wave of light-headedness. He’s never considered this possibility. Him, a father? It just doesn’t fit. “But — E, I’m kind of a fuckup,” he says, and Eric laughs again. “No, seriously, I mean —”  
  


“You can’t argue your way out of this one,” Eric says. “Besides, you aren’t a fuckup. Fucked up, sometimes, maybe, but — you remember our pops?” Vince nods, just once, not willing to pull up the memory. “No way you’re a fuckup compared to that.”  
  


Vince nods. He takes a deep breath. A baby. He’s going to be a  _father_. Like, forever. “Holy shit,” he says. “I seriously — “  
  


“It’s gonna be fine,” Eric says. “Jesus, what a good looking kid, right?”   
  


Vince laughs, and Eric squeezes his shoulder. “You — aren’t you disappointed?”  
  


“Me? Nah,” Eric says. “I figured it was a pretty slim chance anyway. And this way — I dunno. It seems sort of less weird.”  
  


“Less weird? That your ex is carrying my baby?”  
  


He shrugs. “The alternative is weirder. Like — I don’t know. I think it would freak me out.”  
  


“It’s kind of freaking me out,” Vince admits.  
  


“You’re gonna be a great dad,” Eric says. “Because I’m gonna make sure of it.”  
  


That, at least, Vince believes.  
  


  
  


They meet Sloan for lunch at an out-of-the-way, upscale Italian place that Sloan suggests. Vince is nervous; he can’t help it. He’s not sure what Sloan’s going to say, or even be like. He’s been ignoring her for a month, and she’s pregnant with his kid.   
  


“Does she even want to see me?”  
  


“Relax, OK?” Eric says as they turn the car over for parking. “She knows what happened. She’s OK.” Vince is unconvinced. “Mostly, she just feels bad about everything, like, us fighting and her not saying anything sooner.”  
  


“So that makes three of us,” Vince says, and Eric grips his shoulder as they walk into the restaurant.  
  


It’s cool and dark inside, and the maitre de shows them right to a booth in the back. Sloan is waiting. She’s wearing a sleeveless black dress, empire waisted, and for a second she doesn’t look any different, but then Vince steps up closer and sees the swell of her belly beneath the cloth and he feels himself blush. He’s glad for Eric’s hand on his back, because he has a sudden urge to turn around, or to fall down.   
  


“Hey,” she says, her voice soft, careful, maybe a little afraid.  
  


“Hey,” Vince says. He sees the hesitation in her eyes and steps forward, bends, and kisses her cheek. She smells like fresh air: shampoo, laundry soap, maybe just her skin. “You look beautiful.”  
  


He slides in opposite her, next to Eric, who’s already seated. The waiter hovers for a moment and they all take their time ordering, all of them probably as anxious as Vince is to put off the awkwardness that has to come. Nothing even sounds good; he gets what Eric’s having.  
  


After the waiter brings back their drinks — tea for E, water for Vince and Sloan — Vince clears his throat. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Sloan leans forward.  
  


“No, I’m sorry,” she says. Her hands wring together, and a silver charm bracelet on her wrist jingles. “Vince, we never — I never meant —”  
  


“I know,” he says, and he’s careful to look at both her and Eric when he says it. “Let’s just — it was my idea in the first place, right?” he says, raising one eyebrow, and it gets the expected laugh of relief. Next to him, Eric’s hand drops onto his leg, just calm and casual. “So,” Vince says, and this is as far as he’s planned things out. He laughs. “Wow.”  
  


And then Sloan laughs, too, and so does E, and Vince figures everything’s going to be OK after all. “So let’s talk about this,” Eric says, and Sloan nods.  
  


Vince clears his throat. “I want — I want to be involved,” he says, and Eric’s hand tightens a little, like a spasm. They haven’t talked a lot about this. “I mean, I don’t know what E’s told you about our dads, my dad, but — I don’t want our kid — “ and he stops, suddenly, and shakes his head. “Our kid. Jesus,” he says, and Sloan smiles, a slower, more sure smile.  
  


“Our son,” she says, and Vince feels that funny light-headed feeling again. He grabs Eric’s shoulder. “I had an ultrasound. It’s a boy.”  
  


“Wow,” Vince says, at the same time that Eric says, “Holy shit.” They both laugh, then, and Vince knows he’s never going to be able to stop smiling. A boy.  
  


“I want you to be involved,” Sloan says, and then she tips her head. “Both of you. I — as far as I’m concerned, you’re together, you’re both his father. Fathers?”  
  


“Fathers,” Eric says, and Vince looks over and sees that he’s got the same stunned, happy look on his face that Vince probably does.  
  


“OK,” Vince says. “So — how do we — what do we do, now? How can we help you?”  
  


“First thing,” Eric says, “is we’ve gotta get you somewhere to live.”  
  


Sloan frowns. “I don’t — I didn’t come here to ask you for money,” she says. “I do just fine, Eric.”  
  


“But not right now,” he says. “You’re not traveling, you’re talking about moving in with your folks.”  
  


“This is something I can do,” Vince says, and he lifts his hand from Eric and moves it over to cover Sloan’s hand on the table. “Money I’ve got,” he says.  
  


“It’s not — I own my place,” Sloan says. “I’m not moving home because of the money.”  
  


“Then why —”  
  


“You want people around?” Eric says, and Sloan nods.   
  


“I appreciate it, though,” she says, squeezing Vince’s hand.  
  


Vince nods. “Well, at least let me take you shopping,” he says, and she laughs.  
  


“All right, you’re on.”  
  


They chat lightly after that. Sloan tells them about pregnancy so far, and Vince surprises himself with his interest. He wants to know everything, every feeling, every funny story. The baby — his son — isn’t a fan of heavy metal or Chinese food, but he does like to be read to.  
  


“We could get some books,” Vince says, at the end of the meal. “E, let’s get some books! There’s that children’s bookstore by Ari’s office —”  
  


“Created a fucking monster,” Eric says, shaking his head affectionately. He offers Sloan his arm as they walk out, and then Vince kisses her cheek again before she gets into her car.  
  


“Should she be driving?” he asks as Sloan pulls away.  
  


Eric shrugs. “People do it all the time,” he says, as they wait for their car. He’s still smiling as they get into the car, and Vince feels like he looks the same. Two hours ago he was scared to death, and now — now, he’s still scared, but he’s also pretty sure that this is the best thing that’s ever happened. They’re gonna have a baby. Him, and Eric, and Sloan.  
  


“This is amazing,” he says, drumming his hands on the dashboard. “This is — I can’t believe — you know?”  
  


“Yeah,” Eric says.  
  


Vince shakes his head. “I feel like we’ve already missed so much. I mean, five months.”   
  


“She said she’d send those ultrasound pictures,” he says, and Vince nods.  
  


He rubs his hands up his arms, feeling a little chill from the breeze in the convertible. “Maybe she should live with us,” he says.  
  


“Uh, what?”  
  


Vince talks it out even as he’s thinking about it. “She wants people around. We want to be involved — it makes sense, E. And that house is too big for us, anyway, with Turtle gone. We’re only using the one bedroom.”  
  


When he looks over, E’s hands are too tight on the steering wheel. “After everything we just went through, you really think that’s a good idea?” he asks.  
  


“What, am I gonna wake up and find you in her bed?” Vince asks, and Eric gives him a glare that Vince can interpret through the sunglasses. “Come on. I trust you. What’s so bad about this?”  
  


Eric sighs. “Think about her, OK? You don’t think it might be a little weird for her, living with the two of us?” Vince starts to say no, because how could it be any weirder, but Eric holds up his hand. “Just think for a second,” he says, and so Vince does. If he were Sloan, well, that’s weird enough, but if he were in Sloan’s position, surely he’d want to be around the baby’s father. Fathers. And it’s not like they don’t get along. Vince likes her, really does, and he really kind of adores the idea of getting to care for her a bit as this goes along. She and Eric always got along, too —   
  


“Oh,” he says, and Eric nods. “You think she still has feelings for you?”  
  


Eric shrugs. “I’m just saying, it can’t be that easy to be around your ex and his partner while you’re alone.”  
  


Vince nods. “OK, that makes some sense, too,” he says. “But I really want — I want to help her. Take care of her,” he says.  
  


“Me, too,” Eric says. “We’ll do what we can.”  
  


They go home, and the house is quiet and dark around them. Vince walks out to the deck while Eric’s returning some calls. He’s gonna have a kid, a baby. A son. He wants to call his mother, suddenly, and that thought puts a little damper on his excitement. Well, at the very least, he can call Johnny and Turtle, so he does that, gets them both to agree to come over for dinner. Then he walks back into the house. He looks around, at all the carefully decorated rooms, the matching couch and end tables, the grown-up toys and the five empty bedrooms. Eric walks in and leans in the doorway.  
  


“You still thinking about her moving in?” he asks, and Vince nods. “Look, it’s not a bad idea,” Eric says. “I just think — if you want to suggest it, be careful about it. And if she moves in, we should probably cool it a little, too.” He gives Vince a look, and Vince laughs.  
  


“No fucking on the kitchen table, got it,” he says.  
  


“Well, not after she’s here,” Eric says, and he raises an eyebrow. “But if you wanna go now —”  
  


“Tempting,” he says, “but Johnny and Turtle are on their way. So we can celebrate.”  
  


“Not the kind of celebration I had in mind,” Eric says, but he grins. “You know what comes next, right?”   
  


Vince shrugs. “The baby carriage?”  
  


Eric snorts. “We get to tell Ari and Shauna.”  
  


Vince’s stomach turns a little. “Do we have to? I mean, won’t that make things harder on Sloan, if people know?”  
  


“People are gonna know anyway,” Eric says. Vince follows him into the kitchen. “Unless you were gonna keep your kid locked up for his whole life.”  
  


“Our kid,” Vince corrects, and watches Eric fight a smile. He puts his arms around Eric from behind as Eric surveys the contents of the refrigerator. “Our kid, our kid, E. We’re gonna have a fucking baby.”  
  


Eric closes the fridge, and Vince rubs his hands over Eric’s chest, under his shirt, kisses his neck. Eric clears his throat. “How soon will the guys be here?” he asks.  
  


They’re getting out of the shower — both of them — when the doorbell rings. Vince pulls on a pair of shorts and slings a towel over his shoulders and answers the door. Johnny and Turtle are standing there, and Johnny sneers. “Catch you in the middle of something, baby bro?” he asks, and Vince laughs.  
  


“Come in, guys, sorry,” he says. They walk into the kitchen, Vince toweling his hair. “E will be out in a second, we just —”  
  


“I think we can guess what you  _just_ ,” Turtle says, but he’s smiling. “So what’s the big news?”  
  


Vince shakes his head. “Wait a sec, all right, let me get some pants.”  
  


“Oh, news that requires pants, it must be a big deal.”  
  


“The biggest,” Vince says.  
  


He goes back to the bedroom. Eric’s already got his jeans on and his hair is mostly dry. “You gotta stop answering the door in your underwear,” he says. “People will get ideas.”  
  


Vince snaps his towel at Eric’s ass, and Eric dodges. He pulls on a worn green T-shirt that they usually fight over; tonight, Vince is willing to admit that it looks better on Eric. “I haven’t told them yet,” he says, as Eric starts toward the kitchen. “Wait until I’m there.”  
  


He finds his own jeans and a black T-shirt, pulls on sandals and walks out to the kitchen. Eric’s leaning against the counter, Turtle in the doorway, Johnny looking through the cabinets. It could be five years ago, just the four of them getting ready to head out for an evening, four friends from Queens, the world still bright and strange and generous around them. Then Eric turns and gives Vince a quick once-over, and he smiles a slow hey-baby smile, and Vince laughs. “So did you tell them?” he asks, hopping up onto the counter so he’s sitting next to where Eric’s leaning.  
  


“You said to wait,” Eric says.  
  


“Yeah, what’s up, guys?” Turtle says. “You said big news.”  
  


“Come on, you finally tying the knot or what?” Johnny asks, and Vince blinks. Eric gives Johnny an even stare, and Johnny shrugs. “Civil union, whatever,” he says.  
  


“Oh, we gotta throw a hella big party for that,” Turtle says.  
  


Vince laughs. “Guys, we aren’t getting married,” he says, and Johnny’s face falls just a little. “We’re having a baby.”  
  


There’s a few seconds of curious, confused silence, and then Turtle says, “What the fuck?” and Johnny grabs Vince’s shoulders and starts to shake him from behind.  
  


“Jesus, that’s great,” Johnny says. “That’s fucking —”  
  


“I repeat, what the fuck,” Turtle says.  
  


“Sloan,” Eric says, and Johnny’s hands freeze and then tighten. “She’s pregnant.”  
  


Turtle’s eyes narrow. He’s looking exclusively at Eric. “You mean you — “  
  


“No, it’s mine,” Vince says, and he watches Turtle’s mouth drop open. Johnny relaxes his grip. “Tell you what, we’ll explain at dinner. I’m starving.”  
  


Turtle gets the story out of them in the car, and his look changes from skeptical to strangely admiring. “Jesus, I’m not doing that again,” Eric mutters as they climb out. “We gotta think of a better story.”  
  


Vince agrees, because as he was saying the word “threesome,” an image of Shauna’s angry face flickered into his mind. “I’ll call Sloan tomorrow.”  
  


  
  


Eric has a meeting scheduled at Paramount the next afternoon, working out some pre-production details on  _Spectaculo_. Sloan’s working, too, but she has a little free time after lunch, so Vince goes to her office alone. She works out of the thirteenth story of a tall glass building in Beverly Hills. A receptionist blinks at him but calls Sloan, and she’s there a second later to greet him. He kisses her cheek and is immediately aware of the receptionist’s eyes on them. Sloan leads him back to her office by the hand, which doesn’t feel weird except for the attention it seems to be attracting.  
  


Her office is at the end of a neat hallway, paneled in maple and accented with chrome, pretty standard Hollywood money. They walk past an empty assistant’s desk and then into her office itself, which is quite spacious and has not just a desk but a table with room for six chairs at one end. There’s a large flat-screen TV hanging on one wall. Vince is impressed, and says so, and Sloan seems to take it in stride. He really had forgotten that she’s probably extremely successful on her own.  
  


He takes a seat on her couch — leather, expensive, very comfortable — and tells her about the scene with Johnny and Turtle.   
  


She says, “I figured we’d just tell people it was planned.”  
  


“Sounds good,” Vince says. “If you’re OK with that.”  
  


“Otherwise, people are going to think — well, it won’t look good for either of us,” she says, shrugging.  
  


Vince nods. “Are you OK with people knowing about this? I mean, we can just not say anything until after he’s born.”  
  


“Better to announce on our terms,” she says. “People are going to ask questions, anyway.”  
  


Vince thinks about the receptionist’s curious look. “We’re gonna talk with Ari and Shauna Friday, I think,” he says, though the meeting hasn’t been scheduled.  
  


“That should be fun,” Sloan says. “Let me know what they say.” She smiles. “You haven’t been here before, have you? You want to take a look around?”  
  


He gets the full tour of Sloan’s office, meets her partners, her assistant, some of the creative staff. It’s after the third introduction or so (and after several pointed looks from him to her belly that Vince doesn’t know how to answer, because he can’t just say he’s the father, not without Eric there, or Ari, or Shauna) that he understands what’s really going on. She’s showing him around not just as courtesy, but because these people are about to see quite a bit of him. He’s being introduced not just to Sloan’s co-workers but to Sloan’s life.  
  


Vince gets a car home, and Eric’s already back, flipping through a script on the couch. He looks up. “How was it?”  
  


Vince falls onto the couch next to him. “Fine,” he says. “It was fine. She says we should tell people we planned it.” Eric nods, as though this was exactly what he was expecting. It probably was. Vince clears his throat. “She’s got a really nice office.”  
  


“Yeah?”  
  


He nods, and rubs his hands over his knees. “Do you think we should get married?”  
  


Eric flinches. “You and Sloan?” he says.  
  


“No, dickhead, you and me,” Vince says.  
  


Eric snorts. “And so goes the least romantic proposal in history.” He sets the script down and turns to face him. “What are you talking about?”  
  


Vince shrugs. “I was just thinking, I mean, we’re pretty much committed to Sloan for life after this, huh? Holidays, birthdays, we’re gonna see a lot of her.”  
  


“True,” Eric says, “but how does that -”  
  


“And last night Johnny and Turtle were both expecting it.”  
  


Eric shakes his head. “Uh, since when do we seek relationship advice from the 40-year-old virgins?”  
  


“I don’t know,” Vince says. He leans back against the couch, turns sideways so he’s facing Eric. “People are going to think I fucked around on you.”  
  


“Ah.” Eric rests one hand on his leg. “So do an interview, set the record straight. It was planned, we’re all really happy, blah blah blah.”  
  


“Everyone in that office is going to know that’s not true,” Vince says. “She’s got a life, E, a whole life outside of this. And all of those people are going to think I’m this terrible fuck-up cheater who knocked her up and left her alone for five months.”  
  


Eric’s eyes narrow. “When did you start caring so much about what people think?”  
  


He shrugs, and looks away until Eric taps his fist against Vince’s knee. “What if they tell him?” he says, looking at Eric’s hand. Vince puts his hand over Eric’s, rests his ring finger over Eric’s. “I want him to understand.”  
  


“Our kid is going to be brilliant,” Eric says. “OK? Hey, listen to me. He’s going to get it. Everything. He’s not going to listen to what anyone says, because he’s going to know us, he’s going to know his father, OK, so he won’t have to rely on what his mother or her friends say.”  
  


Vince nods, after a second, and then meets Eric’s eyes, which are full of warm, frustrated compassion. “All right,” he says, nodding again, and Eric nods back.  
  


“You crazy motherfucker,” he says, sitting back. Vince twists until Eric’s arm is over his shoulders. “Jesus, you come out at the Globes, now we’ve got a baby on the way, and you want to get married on top of everything? Every tabloid in the country is gonna send you flowers. What’s next, you gonna go tranny on me?”  
  


“I’m kind of hot in a skirt,” Vince says, and Eric snorts.   
  


He rests his head on top of Vince’s. “Fucking be the death of me,” Eric mutters, and Vince smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Eric is gone when Vince wakes up. Vince vaguely remembers him saying something about a haircut. He takes a shower and calls Turtle to see what he’s up to, and so they get lunch and then go back to Vince’s place with some of Turtle’s new weed, because Turtle points out days like this are probably numbered. “No midday hits once junior’s around,” Turtle says, and Vince laughs but agrees. He has his head over the bong when the door opens. He takes a long hit and then puts the bong on the floor, behind the coffee table, out of view.  
  


“You ready?” Eric calls from the entryway.  
  


Vince can’t answer, not yet. When Eric steps in, Turtle waves. “Hey,” Eric says. He’s wearing a pale green button-down that is one of Vince’s favorites, the top button undone, his hair sharp under his sunglasses. “Vince, you ready? We’ve got Ari and Shauna in an hour.”  
  


A mouthful of smoke escapes, and then Vince coughs. “What?” he says. “I thought that was Friday.”  
  


“Oh, Jesus,” Eric says. “How high are you?”  
  


Vince shrugs. He doesn’t feel that high. It’s only a few hits, so far. “It’s pretty strong stuff,” Turtle says from the couch, and Vince turns to look at him.  
  


“I’m fine,” he says.  
  


“Uh-huh,” Eric says. He has his hands on his hips, and Jesus but that’s hot. Eric is always hot when he’s pissed off.   
  


Vince licks his lips. “Really,” he says. “Seriously, man, it’s fine.” He concentrates on sitting up very straight, on making sure his eyes are just wide enough, and that when he speaks he’s not talking directly to Eric’s cock. “I can do this.”  
  


Eric’s eyes narrow. “We’ll get you an espresso on the way.”  
  


“OK,” Vince says. Eric walks to the kitchen, and Vince sags back into his chair. “Fuck, my boy is hot,” he says, and Turtle snorts.  
  


“You’re fucked up,” Turtle says, nodding slowly.  
  


“Totally,” Vince agrees.  
  


Eric brings a bottle of water and says, “Come on, stoner,” and Vince follows him to the car. Eric is tousled and anxious and ridiculously sexy. Vince keeps his hands on his own thighs only because Eric is snappish, and he knows if he pisses him off then there won’t be sex later. He does, however, stand close to him in the elevator, his elbow brushing Eric’s back, every breath a little hit of Eric’s cologne and aftershave, and Eric doesn’t even notice, he’s so worked up about the meeting.  
  


Ari, however, never misses a beat.  
  


“What, E, you wearing your special panties today?” he asks as they walk into his office. “Jesus, call him off.”  
  


Eric looks over, startled, and Vince shrugs from two inches away. “Hi,” he says, and Eric rolls his eyes.  
  


“You can’t make anything easy, huh?” He pats Vince’s chest, a clear dismissal, and starts for the couch.  
  


“Huh-uh,” Ari says, and points to the armchair. “If I’m getting news sprung on me, then you don’t get to be in each other’s back pockets. Fair fight, fellas.”  
  


So Eric takes the chair and Vince sits across from him, separated by the long glass coffee table. Shauna arrives, looking harried, and trades fuck yous with Ari in greeting. She kisses Vince’s cheek, gives Eric a little glare, and takes a seat on the couch. Eric’s sitting with his legs casually spread and Vince wants them all to just fucking leave them alone. Five minutes, he thinks, I don’t need any more than that.  
  


“Stop,” Eric says, catching his eye.  
  


Shauna glances over. “Hungry, are we?” she asks, and Vince shrugs.  
  


“He looks good today, doesn’t he?”  
  


“He looks like a goddamned nightmare,” Ari says. “So what now, boys? E, let me guess, you want him to convert to Scientology.”  
  


Eric clears his throat and blushes, just a little. So fucking hot. “We wanted to talk to you about something. Uh, it’s important, like, don’t freak out on us, OK? But, uh, Vince is -”  
  


“We’re having a baby,” Vince says.  
  


There’s silence for a second, then Ari turns. “E, you had a fucking pussy hidden in there all the time, huh? Jesus, I knew it.”  
  


“You wanna explain a little more?” Shauna says.  
  


“What, no congratulations?” Vince says, leaning back.  
  


“It depends,” Shauna says. “Are we talking African orphan here or did you knock up one of the Spears girls?”  
  


Eric leans forward, his hands steepled. “Vince is the father. Sloan is the mother.”  
  


“Holy fucking shit,” Ari says. “Sloan, like Terrence’s motherfucking daughter Sloan? Like your ex-girlfriend Sloan?”  
  


“No, Sloan like Amy Sloan. Jesus Christ, am I not speaking English?” Eric asks.  
  


“It sounds like you’re speaking crazy,” Ari says.  
  


“Who all knows?” Shauna asks.  
  


Vince explains about the people at her office, and Eric neatly glosses over the part where they didn’t know about anything for the first four months. “So we’re gonna talk about this,” Ari says, looking at Shauna, and she nods.  
  


“Kelly at People,” she agrees, and then looks at Vince. “This is clear with Sloan, right? And you’re very sure, she’s not going to change her mind later and say it’s someone else’s.”  
  


“She’s had a test,” Eric says. “I saw the results, I can e-mail it to you.”  
  


“I trust you,” she says, and Ari says, “Send them to me, then. Jesus fucking Christ.” He looks angry, drops his head into his hands. Vince looks over at Eric, who shrugs, a neat fuck-him shrug, and then Ari looks up again. “Congratulations, man,” he says, and lunges over for a hug. “Kids are the fucking dream.”  
  


“Thanks, Ari,” Vince says, and he really does feel grateful. Shauna hugs him, too, while Ari embraces Eric.  
  


“Thank god the kid’s getting the good genes, huh?” he says.  
  


“Fuck you, too, Ari,” Eric says, but he’s smiling. “In fact, that might be the first thing we teach him to say.”  
  


They talk a little more, and Shauna agrees to put out some feelers, see if anyone knows anything yet, and then to put out an announcement at exactly the right minute. Vince can’t tell if she thinks that minute will be soon or not, but Eric seems pleased with the whole idea. That’s enough for him.  
  


On the way out, Vince puts his arm around Eric’s shoulders just because he can, now, the meeting’s over and so Eric’s got to be a little relaxed. Eric looks up at him and narrows his eyes. “I have work to do this afternoon,” he says.  
  


“I am your work,” Vince says.  
  


“Seriously,” E says, stepping out from under his arm as they get off the elevator. “I’ll drop you at home.”  
  


“Then you’d better make a stop on the way,” Vince says, “because I’m going to need to blow you.”  
  


He watches Eric blush, again. The valet keeps a straight face, though, so Vince isn’t sure what the big deal is. It’s not like everyone doesn’t know.  
  


But Eric’s actually pissed off, Vince realizes when they get in; he guns the car pulling away, and Vince turns in his seat. “You know I hate it when you pull that shit,” he says.  
  


“What are you, a fucking girl? I’m offering you sex,” Vince says. “Sex, E, with me. Come on. Lots of guys would kill for that.”  
  


“You’re just digging yourself a hole, here,” Eric mutters.  
  


“I meant — “ Vince sighs. “I meant most guys would jump at the chance for sex. Good sex,” Vince says, and risks putting his hand on Eric’s thigh. “And it is good, you know it. You and me, man.”  
  


Eric shakes his head. “Tell me how a meeting about having a baby got you in the mood.”  
  


“It’s more the pot, probably,” Vince says.  
  


“Very flattering.” Eric takes a turn a bit sharply, and Vince falls back against the door. “Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t look it.  
  


“You know what,” Vince says, staying across the car, “fuck you. I can take care of myself.”  
  


“Not in my car, you can’t. I just had it detailed.”  
  


Vince rolls his eyes. “I am capable of self-control,” he says, and Eric snorts. “I just don’t usually have to exercise it, because usually my boyfriend isn’t being a fucking pussy about getting laid.”  
  


“There’s so much wrong with that sentence,” Eric says.  
  


“You’re correcting my grammar, now?” Vince crosses his arms. “What is your deal?”  
  


“My deal is you’re about to be a father and you’re acting like a fucking seventeen year old. This isn’t a game, Vince. You wanna spend your afternoons getting wasted with Turtle and making eyes at me in front of people we have to work with, you should have maybe made some different choices.” He pulls the car into the drive and unlocks the doors. “I need to go back to the office.”  
  


Vince gets out without a word, slams the door, and walks into the house. He’s angry, he’s still a little turned on, and there’s something else sinking through the buzz that he doesn’t like, a feeling that Eric’s making a good point. Bastard, he thinks, and decides to go for a swim.  
  


After he swims, he changes into clean shorts and stretches out on the couch. He can see he missed a call from Eric, but he decides not to call him back, not yet. Vince is cooled down, but Eric probably isn’t. They can talk this out when he gets home. He opts for a nap, and when he wakes to the ringing of the phone, he briefly considers not answering it. But he does, and he’s glad, because it’s Sloan.  
  


“Hey, I’m sorry, I thought E was going to call you,” Vince says, sitting up on the couch and rubbing sleep from his eyes.   
  


“He left a message, I think, but I was busy. Is he around?”  
  


“No, I’m not sure where he is,” Vince says, and realizes Eric should have been home a while ago. Maybe he’s more pissed than Vince thought. “Maybe at the office.”  
  


“All work, huh?”  
  


“Tell me about it,” he says. “What’s up?”  
  


“Just wondering how it went with Ari.”  
  


“Oh, fine,” he says. “Ari’s Ari, you know. Gave E a hard time, of course.”  
  


“Of course.”  
  


He tells her the rest, and when he says that Shauna’s going to talk to someone at  _People_ , Sloan hums her assent. “So I’ll probably get a call?” she says.  
  


“Probably soon,” Vince says. “You’re still OK with this, right?”  
  


She laughs. “It’s too late to turn back now,” she says. “I’ve already bought a car seat.”  
  


“Car seat,” Vince echoes. He looks around the living room — not a stuffed animal or baby-proofed outlet in sight. Eric might have a point about their readiness for this all, but Vince can prove him wrong. “Hey, do you have any free time this weekend? I’ve been thinking, we maybe need to get some stuff for the house, but I don’t know where to start.”  
  


“Sure,” Sloan says. “Sounds fun. I probably have some time Saturday, will that work for you guys?”  
  


“Works for me,” Vince says. “E might be working or something, but I’ll find out. You want to meet somewhere?”  
  


“Or I’ll come pick you up.”  
  


“Even better,” he says. “Just give me a call Saturday when you’re headed this way.”  
  


“All right, I will. Bye, Vince.”  
  


He hangs up the phone and rolls over on the couch, already feeling better about things.  
  


Eric comes home around eight. He goes straight to the kitchen, though Vince is in the living room, and when he walks out he’s drinking a beer. His eyes are squinty and his mouth is tight, and Vince wonders if he’s really still mad.  
  


“Where’ve you been?” Vince asks.  
  


Eric walks to the armchair and sits down, even though there’s an ocean of space next to Vince on the couch. “I had to meet with Victor Ballantine.”  
  


“Is he gonna give us the money?” Eric shrugs. “When do we find out?”  
  


“He’ll probably call tomorrow. He wanted to check with his finance guy, he said.”  
  


Vince can tell from here that’s a blow off line, and he’s surprised that Eric hasn’t caught on. “He doesn’t like the script?”  
  


“I said he’s checking with his guy,” Eric says. “You want me to give you a transcript?”  
  


“I just want to know what happened.”  
  


“You want to know so bad, maybe you should show up for the fucking meetings,” Eric says.  
  


Vince opens his mouth, then takes a deep breath. He’s not going to fight with Eric, not over this, not right now. Margot, his therapist, has shown him that he often puts a lot of decision-making pressure on Eric instead of working to share the burdens with him. So tonight, he can offer to share, if it will make this fight go away. “I could,” he says. “I’ve been kind of tuned-out on this deal. What can I do to help now?”  
  


Eric’s shoulders slump. “I dunno,” he says, rubbing his head.  
  


Vince sits forward, and when it’s clear Eric’s not going to move, he gets up from the couch and walks to the armchair, sits on the arm and puts his hand on Eric’s back. “I can call him, tomorrow,” Vince says, starting to rub Eric’s neck. “Would that help?”  
  


“Mm,” Eric says. “Maybe. Or — would you mind talking to Andrea?”  
  


“Sure,” Vince says. “When are you meeting with her?”  
  


“Probably Saturday.”  
  


“Afternoon?”  
  


“Not sure. Why, you have plans?”  
  


“I was going to go shopping with Sloan.”  
  


“Yeah?” Eric looks up, and he’s clearly surprised and pleased. “You can probably just call Andrea.”  
  


“Or you can move the meeting to Friday, and we can all shop together.”  
  


“Nah,” he says, “she’s busy. But maybe I’ll catch up with you guys afterwards.”  
  


“OK,” Vince says. He lifts his hands from Eric’s shoulders. “Come on, there’s leftovers,” he says.  
  


Eric follows him to the kitchen, shaking his head, still holding the beer. “Is this, like, you feeling bad about today?”  
  


Vince shrugs. “If I’d known the meeting was today, I wouldn’t have gotten together with Turtle. You know me, I don’t usually go high to stuff.”  
  


Eric keeps staring at him for a minute, then just nods. Vince can tell that’s not what he wants to talk about, not what he wants an apology for, but maybe Eric can let things rest for once, too. And when Eric sets his plate down, after dinner, and then backs Vince up against the kitchen counter and kisses him, Vince gets a part of his apology, too.  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


Saturday, Eric takes the morning off and they go to breakfast, out. Vince eats eggs and steals potatoes off of Eric’s plate, and Eric laughs when Vince tells him the joke Turtle told him the day before. There are cameras outside and they get snapped waiting for the car, and Vince turns his back to them and Eric smiles up at him. They meet the guys mid-morning to shop for a new couch for Turtle’s place, which Vince charges. When he sits in an armchair to watch Turtle debating which coffee table to buy, Eric sits on the arm and rests his hand on Vince’s shoulder.  
  


“We need to buy some stuff, huh?” he says.  
  


“That’s what I’m shopping for today,” Vince says. “Seriously, you want me to wait? We can go later.”  
  


“Just nothing with leopard print,” Eric says, “and nothing over 10 K, all right? He’s just going to throw up on anything you buy.”  
  


“All right,” Vince agrees, and leans against Eric’s side to watch Turtle and Drama arguing over the masculinity of a certain lamp. “You think our other kids will be jealous?”  
  


Eric snorts, then kisses the side of his head. “You already gave them pretty nice playpens,” he says, and then pulls away. “I gotta go meet Andrea. You OK to get a ride?”  
  


“I’m all grown up,” Vince says. “I can probably take care of myself.”  
  


“Never doubt it,” Eric says. He says good-bye to the guys and walks out, and a minute later Vince’s cell phone rings. “Watch out when you leave,” he says. “Blood-thirsty crowd out there.”  
  


“We’ll go out back,” Vince says.  
  


They make arrangements to get the couch and coffee table delivered, and Vince calls Sloan before they leave. “We’re already downtown,” he says. “You want me to meet you somewhere?”  
  


“Sure,” she says, and names an address for a store called Babystyle. Vince laughs, a little, just hearing the name. He wishes Eric was around, because the guys won’t get it.  
  


Turtle brings the car around back, and Vince dodges in. He doesn’t hear any camera snaps, but that doesn’t mean anything anymore, with everyone going digital. “Babystyle,” he says, and when Turtle snickers it’s a different kind of laugh.  
  


“Fuck,” he says, “is this the future?”  
  


“Yeah, and watch your language,” Vince says.  
  


They drop him off in front of the boutique, and Vince walks in. The store is cool and sleekly decorated, with lots of natural-wood furniture and neutral colors. There are two women, one of them visibly pregnant, browsing through cribs and clothing near the back of the store, but no sign of Sloan yet. Vince glances to the side, where there’s a sturdy wooden table that looks kind of like an entertainment center, with drawers and an open space at the bottom. He tries to look interested in it, and hopes Sloan hurries.  
  


“That’s one of our most popular changing tables,” a saleswoman says. She’s wearing all white, and moves very quietly, so Vince startles just a little.  
  


“Really?” he says.  
  


She nods. “Are you looking for a registry gift?”  
  


“Ah, no,” he says, and puts both hands on the table. “It’s, I’m actually here, uh, I’m waiting for someone.”  
  


She nods. Her face is perfectly uncurious, but Vince suddenly wants to explain. He wants to tell everyone in the store, let them all know that he’s in exactly the same boat they are. “It’s — my partner and I, we’re setting up a nursery,” he says. “We don’t have anything yet.”  
  


“Well,” she says, and she suddenly has a nice, warm smile, “you’ve come to the right place.”  
  


Before she can start in on the hard sell, the door opens and Sloan breezes in. She’s wearing a short maternity dress today, sleeveless and fitted, and as she walks forward she has one hand resting on her belly. Vince grins, embraces her, and kisses her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, and she smiles.  
  


“Traffic.”  
  


The saleswoman has the same implacable smile as before, and Vince is comforted.   
  


They pick out a crib and a changing table and get a catalog of other decorating options, and Sloan suggests another store for the stroller they should have. “You can custom-order them,” she says as they walk out the front doors. Vince has his hand on her back. “So you can get colors and fabrics that you like, and adjust everything else, the sun shade, the wheels, if you want music -”  
  


She stops, suddenly, startled, and Vince looks up and sees why. There’s a phalanx of paparazzi across the street, all of them aimed squarely at the two of them. Vince can guess these headlines. “It’s fine,” he says, hurrying Sloan toward the curb. She walks around and climbs into the driver’s side, and Vince ducks in on the other side. As Sloan pulls away, he picks up his phone to call Shauna and puts her on speakerphone.  
  


“I know,” she says. “I talked to Kelly this morning, so the story’s already made it to their Web site. You’re big news. There’s some stories already.”  
  


“Great,” he says.  
  


“Just lay low for a bit, all right? You too, honey,” she says, and Sloan agrees.   
  


She glances at Vince after he shuts his phone. “Are you all right?”  
  


He shrugs. “I should be asking you, right?”  
  


“I’m fine,” she says. “I work in PR, remember?”  
  


He nods. “Say, you, uh, you wanna come over? I mean, look through the catalogs with me, maybe help us figure out the space? And — well. It’s not a bad place to lay low.”  
  


“All right,” she says. She glances up in the rear view mirror. “You might want to let E know, though. I think we’re being followed.”  
  


“Awesome.”  
  


He calls Eric, who agrees to meet them at the house, and who hangs up fast. Vince suspects he’s calling Shauna back, and he’s both reassured and a little annoyed by it. It’s not like he can’t handle this stuff on his own.  
  


There’s a black Mercedes parked in front of the house, the same car (or its twin) from the first couple of weeks after the Golden Globes, when everyone was scrambling for pictures of Vince and Eric together. Fresh photos of the two of them doing anything friendly are still hot properties, and Vince wonders if Sloan’s going to get added to the mix. He wonders if there will be some kind of bidding war for the baby’s photos, and hopes he can remember to ask Eric about that later.  
  


Vince leads Sloan inside and offers her a drink in the kitchen — she takes water — and he lays the catalogs out on the island. “Which room is the nursery?” she asks, and Vince is embarrassed to admit they haven’t picked a space yet.   
  


“I guess, I don’t know. Maybe Eric’s old room?”  
  


“Upstairs?”  
  


He nods, and Sloan cocks her head to one side. “I don’t want to tell you how to do things,” she says, “but you might think about, I guess for me, I want him close by. I mean, I know at first, he’ll probably sleep in the room, with me, but even after that — I just want him close enough so that I can hear him cry.”  
  


Vince sits down. “That makes sense,” he says. Of course it does. He glances toward the hallway. The master bedroom is the only bedroom on the first floor. It occupies the western third of the ground floor, with the kitchen in the center and the living room and deck at the eastern end, where the laundry is. Eric’s old room and the three other bedrooms are all upstairs. They could just move upstairs, to one of the other rooms, Vince reasons, but he’s gotten pretty used to their big shared room. It’s the only room in the house with two separate closets, which has proved a godsend with the amount of clothing he has. Plus Eric has the room next to his old one set up as an at-home office. Vince groans at the very idea of having to move everything around, and Sloan says, “Everything OK?”  
  


“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s, uh, let’s look at room designs.”  
  


All of the catalog furniture and design suggestions are beautiful. Vince is particularly fond of one called the Seascape Fantasy room, where the baby’s room would be painted in blues and greens, with silk curtains and thick, soft carpeting, everything designed to make the room seem like it could be underwater. He pictures that as being potentially comforting for the baby — leaving one watery world to enter another. Plus, it’s just really cool, and he could fit a few Aquaman toys in without any trouble.  
  


Eric shows up after an hour or so, and they all look at the catalogs together. He likes the Seascape, too, but says, “I don’t know that we could fit all that stuff in the upstairs rooms.” They have a quick, light dinner together — leftover pasta from Drama’s last cooking binge — and then Vince offers to call a car to take Sloan home.  
  


“I’m really fine,” she says, but she doesn’t look it. She looks very tired, almost asleep on her feet.  
  


“You could stay over, if you want,” he says. Sloan looks at him, clearly confused, and he says, “We really do have a lot of guest rooms. Plus this way, we can all go out together in the morning and really mess with the paparazzi.”  
  


“I didn’t bring anything,” she says, but it doesn’t take much to get her to agree. They find an old T-shirt and sweatpants of Turtle’s that are stretchy enough to fit, and by 11 she’s tucked into the guest room at the end of the hall upstairs. Vince listens for the closing of the door, then turns to Eric.  
  


“I think we need to move,” he says, and Eric sighs.  
  


“What now?”  
  


“We need a house where the nursery can be next to our bedroom,” he says. “And, you know, I was thinking, maybe we could find two houses somewhere. Somewhere gated.”  
  


“Two? Jesus,” Eric says, rubbing his forehead. “Nightfeeders did pretty well, man, but -”  
  


“We get a house and we get one next door for Sloan. That way — that way we get to see him whenever.” Vince sits next to Eric at the table. “I want to make sure we do this right.”  
  


Eric just looks at him, then says, “Let’s talk to Sloan in the morning.”  
  


“Thank you,” Vince says. He bends down, kisses one of Eric’s hands. “You’re gonna be such a good dad,” he murmurs, and Eric tousles his hair.  
  


“What, because I give in so easily?” Vince looks up, and Eric cups his chin. “You’re gonna be the best at this,” he says. “You know that.”  
  


Vince kisses Eric’s palm. “Let’s go to bed.”  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


At breakfast the next morning, Vince brings up the idea of moving. It starts to sound kind of silly as he says it: “And then we thought, maybe you could just, uh, live next door?” but to his surprise, Sloan just says, “Oh, thank God,” and grins.  
  


“I was wondering how we’d ever be able to do this if you’re halfway across town,” she says. “And I didn’t want — I mean, it’d be pretty weird if we all moved in together.”  
  


“That’s why this seemed like a good compromise,” Vince says, and she nods.  
  


“I have a broker that I’ve used some through work who might be helpful. I can call her tomorrow and see what there is out there.”  
  


And so the next few months pass in a blur. They find two houses not next door to each other, but within the same gated community, so that it takes no longer than six minutes to walk from one door to the other (Vince times it; Johnny can do it in four minutes, he claims, but there’s never any real proof). Sloan has family money on top of her own income and turns down Vince’s offer to help with the purchase, though she does let him pay for a spa day while the movers unpack her house. That was Eric’s idea, meant to keep Sloan from overdoing it.  
  


They both spend a lot of time trying to make sure Sloan’s not overdoing. She’s still going to work in month eight, and though the doctor says that’s fine — and that everything is fine, from the tips of the baby’s toes to his now-forming eyelashes — both guys worry pretty much constantly. Eric deals with his anxiety by reading parenting books; Vince deals with it through extra sessions at the gym, including daily yoga. He figures he’ll be so flexible by the time the kid is born, he’ll be able to juggle bottles no problem.  
  


Sloan finally allows them to hire her a driver (and makes them promise it won’t be Turtle), and they get into an every-other-night routine of dinners together. In between, Vince and Eric spend a lot of time in the nursery, which, at the last minute, they decide to put together themselves — well, Eric decided they should do it, because he didn’t trust anyone else to pick out the stuff the baby would be around. They decorate with picture posters of New York, pretty, brightly colored things, like the Manhattan skyline at night, Central Park in fall, the Bronx Zoo, a Yankees game, and then create a mini petting zoo of over-stuffed animals to surround their state-of-the-art crib. Turtle and Johnny each buy the baby a tiny hat, one Yanks, one Mets, and matching jerseys, and they even kick in for mobile with little baseballs dangling that plays “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”  
  


“The kid’ll love that, guys, thanks,” Vince says, and even Eric hugs them both.  
  


They are still, with a month to go, calling him just “the baby” or “the kid.” Coming up with a name has been a grueling process — none of the suggestions has been something any of them love. The closest they’ve come to agreement is on a middle name, tentatively; Sloan asked if it could be her grandfather Oliver’s name, and both Eric and Vince are OK with it, pending a first name that doesn’t sound ridiculous. Eric likes a lot of old-fashioned, solid Irish names — James is at the top of his list — while Sloan leans toward the contemporary, first names that sound like last names: Marshall, Parker, Anderson. Vince doesn’t have a specific idea of what he wants, except he’s confident he’ll know it when he hears it. He spends a lot of time watching movie credits and then running the names through his head: Robert Oliver? No. Marlon Oliver? No. They haven’t taken on the delicate topic of a last name yet, in part because Vince isn’t sure what Eric’s thinking about it or even where Sloan stands, and he doesn’t want to start any fights.  
  


Sloan drops in one afternoon while Eric’s running errands, and Vince leads her back to the nursery to show off the latest addition. “Oh, wow,” she says, taking a seat, gingerly, in the new rocking chair.  
  


“It’s an antique,” Vince says, “but Eric had it tested, there’s no lead or anything. It’s the one his mother used to have, and she got that from her mom. I just got his aunt to ship it out last week finally.”  
  


Sloan looks up, her hands resting gently on the arm rests. “God, poor Eric,” she says. “I forget sometimes about his mom.”  
  


Vince hasn’t forgotten. He knows it’s been hard for Eric. Even in high school, she’d talked about wanting grandkids; she had virtually adopted Eric’s cousins kids as her own, to the point that Eric called them his nieces and nephews.   
  


“She was such a nice lady,” Sloan says, and Vince nods. He’d almost forgotten that Sloan ever met Eric’s mom. “So, actually, this is as good a segue as any. I figured out a name.”  
  


“Yeah?”  
  


“Yeah. And I think you’re gonna have to talk E into it.”  
  


Vince leans back against the closet door. “What’s the name?”  
  


“Eric.”  
  


Vince waits for a second, expecting more, and then he gets it. “Eric.” She nods. “Eric Oliver.” It clicks. That’s the name he’s been waiting for. “I like it.”  
  


“You do?”  
  


“I do,” he says. “Actually — I kind of love it. Eric Oliver.”  
  


“Good,” she says. “Then there’s just one more choice. Chase?”  
  


He swallows. There’s a little shiver in his chest, and he looks at Sloan’s belly. “Really?”  
  


“It can be, if you want,” she says. “I’m not attached to McQuewick — a nightmare to spell, anyway, and I’m carrying on all the family name I want with Oliver. My brother already has two kids.”  
  


Vince nods. Eric Oliver Chase. He likes it, he can’t deny that. Carrying on the family name was never really his ambition — there are thousands of Chases out there, anyway — but he does feel an instant glint of pride at the idea of it. But — something feels off. He thinks about writing the name, thinks about calling it out, thinks about his son standing next to him at some future party or school function, and he hears Eric introducing the two of them as “the Chase men.” “What about Murphy?” he asks, surprising himself as he says it.  
  


Sloan looks just as surprised. “Did you guys talk about that?”  
  


He shrugs. “No, but — it just sounds right. You know?”  
  


She nods. “Are you — are you sure, Vince?”  
  


He shrugs again, then nods. “My brothers have our family name handled. E — this is all the family he’s got, you know?” He’s starting to warm to the whole concept, the grand gesture of it. More than anything, he wants Eric to know that this baby is their baby, not just Vince’s, not just Sloan’s.   
  


“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Sloan says. “But do you think he’ll agree?”  
  


“He’ll be — you’re right, actually, he’ll probably argue.”  
  


“So convince him,” Sloan says, and she raises an eyebrow. “I’ve seen some of your methods of persuasion, remember? I know you can do it.”  
  


He helps her out of the chair and kisses her cheek. “Thank you,” he says, one hand in the small of her back.  
  


She nods, but he keeps her in his arms, his mouth against the top of her head. “No, really, Sloan. Thank you, for everything. You don’t know what it means to us — to me —”  
  


“Hey hey, knock it off, you have witnesses.”  
  


Vince feels Sloan laugh, and he turns and grins at Eric. “You totally caught me,” he says, one hand still on Sloan’s back. “I was just about to propose.”  
  


“The sin of it all finally too much for you? How are you, Sloan?” Vince watches Eric look right at her belly, and Sloan laughs.  
  


“Go ahead, I know you’re dying to,” she says, and guides his hand to her stomach. “He’s been pretty active since lunch.”  
  


“Spicy food?” Eric asks.  
  


“Not too bad, doctor,” she says, rolling her eyes, and Vince grins. He puts his hand just next to Eric’s, and sure enough, after a few seconds, he feels the sharp bump of his son — his fucking son — kicking or elbowing or just, who knows, shifting around. Vince actually tries not to visualize him too much yet, because he has a great imagination and does not, at all, want a realistic image of a fetus floating around in his head for the next few weeks. “But speaking of food, I should get going. I’m meeting some of the girls for a good-bye dinner.”  
  


“Good-bye?”  
  


She smiles. “Not for me, guys. My leave party is scheduled in two weeks, not a moment sooner.” She looks down at her stomach. “Which you’re going to cooperate with, right? Good boy.”  
  


“We gotta get this kid a name,” Eric says as they follow her into the hallway. “Hey, dinner tomorrow?”  
  


“Sounds good,” Sloan says. She kisses Eric’s cheek, then Vince’s, and he gets from her look that he’s supposed to talk to Eric before then about the name. “Please no eggplant, though.”  
  


“Uh, no problem,” Eric says. “I was thinking pizza.”  
  


“Excellent. OK. See you both tomorrow.”  
  


They watch her walk — it’s a labored walk, but she’s still very steady and surprisingly swift — to the car and get in the back, and the driver pulls away a moment later. Vince turns to Eric, not sure exactly how to bring up the name thing, trying to think of some nice segue from their earlier conversation.  
  


“I was really hoping she was going to take her leave early,” Eric says.  
  


“Yeah, when she mentioned that party, I was hoping, too.” They walk back inside and to the kitchen, where there’s a bag of food waiting on the counter, the familiar salty smell of their favorite Chinese place wafting up. It’s Eric’s turn to cook. “Hey, should  _we_  throw her a party?” Vince asks.  
  


Eric pauses, a cardboard container in one hand. “A party? Like a shower?” Vince nods. “I, uh, isn’t it kind of late for that?”  
  


“Yeah,” Vince admits, “we probably should have done it a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it now.”  
  


Eric shrugs, then turns to get plates. “I dunno. I mean, she’s already got most of the stuff she needs.”  
  


“It’s not about the presents. It’s more about the gesture.” He really just brought this up as a way to keep talking about the baby, but now that he thinks about it, it’s a great idea. They should throw Sloan a shower. Hell, they should’ve thrown themselves a shower, but it probably is too late for that. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of this sooner. I can’t believe you didn’t think of it, with all your reading.”  
  


“The books are about the important stuff, Vin, like how to know if the kid has an allergy, not so much how to plan a baby shower.” Eric shakes his head and hands over the cashew chicken. “Do you even think she’d want a shower?”  
  


“Why not?” Eric gives him a look, but Vince can’t guess what he’s thinking. “Why? Because the baby has two daddies instead of one? Come on, she made it through People Magazine, I doubt a shower could be more awkward.”  
  


Eric shrugs. “OK, fair point,” he says. “So — you wanna plan it, or should I get somebody to —”  
  


“No, I got it,” Vince says. “I’ll get Turtle to help.” Eric raises an eyebrow. “I won’t put him in charge or anything, I promise.”  
  


“All right. I’ll help, too,” he says. “When do you want to do it?”  
  


“Soon, I guess, but it might take a month or so to get everything together. She really deserves something nice.”  
  


“We could do it right after,” Eric suggests.   
  


“Isn’t that weird?”  
  


He shrugs. “Not even in the top ten of weird things about this,” he says.  
  


Vince thinks it over. “It might be nice to have people come see the baby.”  
  


“Yeah,” Eric agrees. “And I’ve read a lot of new moms feel really isolated, so it could be a good deal for Sloan, too.”  
  


“Good point. OK. Post-baby shower. I’ll work on it.”  
  


“Plus, then we’ll know the name and everything. We can send invites with the birth announcements.”  
  


And there’s his opening. “Hey, speaking of the name,” he says, and Eric raises an eyebrow. “Sloan and I decided.”  
  


“Yeah? I still get veto, though, right? No way is my kid gonna be named Forrest or Stone or something. I mean, why not just beat him up now?”  
  


“No, I think you’ll like this, too,” Vince says. “Strong Irish name.”  
  


“Yeah?”  
  


He nods. “Eric.” Eric keeps looking at him, and Vince almost laughs at himself. “Eric, as in, Eric Oliver.”  
  


Eric’s eyes get a little wide. “Wait — my name? Seriously?”  
  


“Both of your names, actually,” Vince says. “Eric Oliver Murphy. Nice ring to it, right?”  
  


Now Eric sets his fork down. “What? Are you — you’re kidding me. No, seriously, that’s a nice gesture, but you don’t have to —”  
  


“We want to,” Vince says. “We both want to. It’s a good name, E. And it won’t really get confusing, because you barely go by Eric anyway.”  
  


“But he’s — I mean, Vince, he’s gonna be your son,” Eric says, and Vince sighs.  
  


“He’s our son,” Vince says. “Ours, yours and mine and Sloan’s, E. The three of us. He’s gonna grow up calling you dad, too.”  
  


Eric opens his mouth, then closes it sharply and looks away. Vince grins and reaches over, pulls Eric’s hand into his. “Say yes,” he murmurs against Eric’s palm.  
  


“Yes,” Eric says, and then laughs. “Holy fuck, yes, I can’t — I — you don’t know —”  
  


“I think I do,” Vince says, kissing his hand. “I love you, OK? Enough to let you father my child.”  
  


Eric groans. “Promise me you’ll never make that joke in public.”  
  


“No way, that’s one of the best that I’ve got.”  
  


“I hope he gets Sloan’s sense of humor,” Eric says.  
  


“Your name, my looks, her brains — that’s one hell of a kid,” Vince says. “We should’ve started this a long time ago, we could’ve populated all of Hollywood by now.”  
  


“Your looks but not your ego, let’s hope,” Eric says, but he’s smiling, too.  
  
  
  


Vince gets to work planning the shower the next day. Turtle is nearly useless. When Vince tries to recruit him, he says, “Jesus, what are you asking me for? Have I ever knocked somebody up?” and Vince starts to think through the pregnant women he’s known in his life. Then the answer’s easy: Shauna. She sets him up with the caterer and the party planner she used for her own shower, Bryce, a guy so gay he makes Vince feel like a Republican. They spend a day touring possible sites for the shower before Vince finally settles on a ballroom at a boutique hotel where they can have lunch served poolside.  
  


“Tomorrow we’re going to pick the place-settings and the cutlery,” Vince tells Eric, stretched out in their bed while he gets into shorts for sleep. “I’m leaning toward the sterling silver set, but Bryce says the silver with gold inlaid is really popular right now.”  
  


Eric shakes his head. “You spend much more time with that guy, I really am gonna worry about you turning into a girl.”  
  


“I just want things to be perfect,” Vince says.  
  


“You? A perfectionist? Am I rubbing off on you?”  
  


Vince skips the joke that comes to mind about how welcome Eric rubbing off on him literally would be right then. “We owe her a lot,” Vince says. “Most guys like us don’t get to have kids.”  
  


Eric slips into bed. “Most guys like us don’t get to do a lot of the stuff we do,” he says.   
  


“Did you ever think we’d be here?”  
  


“No,” Eric says, looking over at him. “I guess — if you’d asked me a couple of years ago, I guess I thought we’d probably both get married, have some kids, live in the same town, all of that.”  
  


“And not be together.”  
  


Eric shrugs. “I guess I tried not to think about that. It — this never seemed possible,” he says. “I mean, sometimes, even now, does it always seem real to you?”  
  


Vince smiles and lowers his head, kisses Eric’s temple gently. “No,” he admits. “Sometimes I think I might wake up.”  
  


It’s true. Vince was maybe just using a line when he told Eric they were living the dream, but now, he really feels it. They’re in love, they’re happy, they’re about to have a baby, their friends are fantastic, and his career is going better than he ever dreamed. It’s an amazing amount of good stuff, and sometimes, Vince wonders if it’s too much. But really, looking back, he feels like they’ve earned everything they have with hard times, and that where they are is pretty much at the best, balanced place. Maybe the yoga is going to his head, but he feels pretty much at peace with things.  
  


His peacefulness is tested by the baby. Or, rather, the lack of baby. Sloan, following advice from her doctor, decides to keep working right through month nine. All of her signs or symptoms or whatever they check are good, but the due date comes and goes and there’s no baby. She’s physically miserable, Vince can see when they pick her up for dinner, but other than keeping her comfortable — dinner is served on the couch, with a dessert of backrub — there’s not much they can do to help.  
  


Which doesn’t stop Eric from trying. He somehow tracks down every old wives’ tale about hurrying labor and decides to try them all. So they take Sloan eggplant sandwiches for lunch and order in very spicy dinners; they go for long walks in the neighborhood and tell her to sleep on her left side. Vince barely talks Eric down from getting some porn from Turtle, because he’s read that getting turned on can speed labor. “Seriously, think about it, is that the story you want to tell Little E when he asks about the night he was born?” Vince asks, and Eric relents.  
  


They both check their phones whenever they’re out, in case of missed calls or low signal strength. Eric waits in the car while Vince and Turtle go to Barney’s one afternoon, because he’s worried there won’t be good reception inside.  
  


It’s not like there’s a lot they can do, even if she’s in labor. Her best friend and business partner, Cathi, is going to be in the delivery room with her; Cathi’s gone to all of the birthing classes with Sloan, too. Their role on D-Day is just to sit in the waiting room until they’re summoned, which Vince is more than happy to do.  
  


Ten days past her due date, Sloan calls mid-afternoon to say she went to see the doctor again. “She’s decided to induce on Thursday if there’s no change before then,” Sloan says over the speakerphone. “And there has been  _no_  change.”  
  


Thursday is three days away. “How’re you feeling?”  
  


“Fine,” Sloan says. “Tired. Hot. My mom’s here.”  
  


“That’s good,” Vince says. “You need anything? You want us to bring lunch tomorrow?”  
  


“Maybe dinner,” she says. “Thanks, guys.”  
  


They hang up and Vince looks over at Eric. “What are you thinking?”  
  


Eric shrugs. “I think I’m relieved,” he says. “I thought maybe this was gonna drag out until next year at this point.”  
  


Vince smiles. “It’s kind of nice to have it set,” he agrees. “Wow. Think of it. Thursday night, we’ll be dads.”  
  


Eric laughs. “So what do you want to do until then?”  
  


They haven’t had anything much to drink in the last two weeks, just in case. “Let’s drink the champagne,” Vince says.  
  


“Good idea.”  
  


They finish the bottle and then go to bed. They haven’t had sex in a week, either, because they’ve been up waiting for the phone to ring most nights until they’re too tired to do anything but sleep, so tonight, they make the time. Vince falls asleep with one arm and one leg thrown over Eric, and he wakes up with Eric reaching over him to answer the phone the next morning.  
  


“Uh-huh. What?” he says, and Vince knows before he even says it. It doesn’t surprise him much when Eric hangs up and says, “She’s on her way to the hospital. She’s been having contractions all night.”  
  


“Fuck,” Vince whispers, and sits up slowly. Champagne hangovers are the worst.  
  


It’s pure comedy, getting out of the house. They both stagger around like zombies, trying to move fast but really going slowly, both of them messing up their routines — Eric forgets to wash the shampoo out of his hair, Vince forgets to shave — and both of them red-eyed from the drinking and the late night. “This is not how I wanted to meet my kid,” Vince says, dry swallowing a couple of Tylenol.  
  


“It could be hours, still,” Eric says. He’s taken some Tylenol, too. “First babies take a long time.”  
  


But by the time they get to the hospital, Sloan’s parents are there, and they say she’s been taken back to her room. Eric looks crestfallen. “I thought we’d at least get to see her, wish her, you know, luck,” he says.  
  


“Eric, I’m sure she’d be happy to see you, if you’d like to go in,” his mother says. It’s the look on her face — part resignation, part hope, that gets Vince, that makes him understand for maybe the first time that this arrangement may be a little crowded for Sloan’s family. They always liked Eric.  
  


“Yeah, come on,” Vince says, even though he wants nothing to do with being in a delivery room, or with seeing labor or any of that. “I bet they’ve gotta let us in. We’re the fathers.”  
  


So ten minutes later they’re they’re led into a hospital room, not even a big medical delivery room like they usually showed on TV, but more like a suite, with a bathtub at one end and a big bed in the center with a bunch of electronic equipment pushed to the back. Sloan’s in the bed, belly protruding under her gown and blanket, as always too big to even seem real. She has her hands resting on her stomach, and her face is a little pale but she looks, otherwise, OK, not screaming or clutching anything. Cathi’s sitting in the chair at her bedside, and when they walk in she says, “Uh, good, OK, I’m just gonna get some ice,” and then leaves.  
  


“Oh, I’m a mess,” Sloan says, brushing back her hair, and Eric laughs.  
  


“You look beautiful,” he says, and walks over and kisses her forehead. “I’m sorry we weren’t here sooner.”  
  


“I should’ve called last night,” she says. “I just thought they were more fake contractions, or food, or just a back ache. And then everything happened so fast —”  
  


“No, don’t worry,” Eric says. He has his hand on her shoulder. Vince has barely moved past the door yet. Something about this room is really freaking him out. “You had stuff on your mind, clearly.”  
  


“Clearly,” she says. Her smile is a little tight.  
  


“How are things, so far?”  
  


“They gave me an epidural not too long ago,” she says. “Much better since then. Much better.”  
  


“Yeah?”  
  


“Yeah. Now it’s more like — like pressure, than pain. I mean. Still not the best way to spend the day,” she says, and now her smile twists.  
  


“Are you starting one right now?” Eric asks. There’s a strange excitement in his voice that adds to Vince’s nerves.  
  


Sloan nods and grabs Eric’s hand. A machine to the side of the bed starts beeping, not an urgent beep but enough that Vince wonders if someone should be coming in, and it’s spitting out a thin strip of paper with a little graph on it. Sloan breathes fast, panting, and Eric says soothing things in that same half-excited voice. Finally, just as Vince is getting ready to go into the hall and grab someone, the machine stops beeping and Sloan closes her eyes and nods when Eric says, “OK? Are you OK?”  
  


“They’re coming a lot faster now,” she says. “The doctor said maybe in the next hour. She’ll be in soon. Do you want to wait?”  
  


No, Vince thinks, and he nearly says it out loud. He finally gets it; he doesn’t want to be here because in here, it feels very much like something could go wrong. All of these machines are built for emergencies. They are built to solve problems he doesn’t want to think about. He just wants to walk out of this room, get a soda, watch some bad cable, and in an hour he’ll be ready to hear that everything is fine. Sloan will be fine, their baby will be fine.  
  


“I don’t know,” Eric says, and Vince knows he’s looking to him. And as much as he wants Eric to be with him right now, their baby — their baby’s mother — needs him more.  
  


“Stay,” Vince says. “I might get something to drink, though, go hang out with the parents for a while. Uh. So it doesn’t get too crowded.” He smiles and makes himself walk to the bed, rests his hand lightly on the blanket over Sloan’s feet. “I’ll see you soon, though. You look wonderful.”  
  


“Thank you, Vince,” she says, and he realizes she’s still holding Eric’s hand.  
  


He doesn’t go far. He’s famous, so they don’t seem to be worried that he’s going to steal someone’s baby. They let him take a seat by the nurses’ station, within view of Sloan’s door, where Cathi has returned and a doctor soon follows. Not long after that, the door opens and they’re pushing Sloan out, Eric at one side, Cathi on the other. As they pass by, Eric bends and kisses Sloan’s cheek, then stops a few feet from Vince.  
  


“Aren’t you going in?” Vince asks.  
  


Eric looks back at him and smiles. “My place here is with you,” he says. “Besides, I don’t want this kid getting the wrong idea, if he meets me first. I mean, come on, how’re you ever gonna live up to that?”  
  


Vince puts his arm around Eric’s shoulders. “He’s gonna love us,” he says.  
  


“Because we’re gonna love him.”  
  


  
  


After that, it’s very much like on TV. Cathi comes to the waiting room about forty-five minutes later and says they have a healthy baby boy, 6 pounds, 6 ounces, and that he and his mother are doing fine and can take a visitor or two. Though Sloan’s mother is immediately on her feet, it’s Eric and Vince who get the nod from Cathi, and though his stomach is in knots, Vince follows Eric through a few sets of double doors to a room just down the hall from where they were before. Cathi knocks lightly, then, when there’s a soft answer, she tells them to go on in.  
  


“OK,” Vince says, psyching himself up. He’s heard new babies are ugly, wrinkly, hard to look at, not even responsive. He’s actually prepared to fake it. But he doesn’t have to, because inside Sloan is sitting up, holding a swaddled little lump, and when Vince sees his dark eyes and his damp mop of dark hair, he has to grab Eric’s shoulder. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, and something hard squeezes his chest as they walk to the bed. He reaches out tentatively, and when Sloan nods he touches the baby’s blanket, feels his infant warmth through the soft flannel, then traces one tentative finger across his little red face. “He’s so beautiful,” Vince says. “He’s so — small, Sloan.”  
  


“Don’t talk to me about small yet,” she says, and Vince laughs. “You want to hold him, Dad?”  
  


“I don’t know if I can,” Vince admits. “And E’s Dad. E should go first.”  
  


Next to him, Eric looks as stunned and frightened as Vince does, but when Sloan offers him the baby he takes him, carefully, one hand always on his head, a low hum starting the moment he’s in his arms. Little E looks up at Eric, or in his direction, at least, and Eric says, “Hey. Hey, guy. I’m your dad,” and his voice breaks a little.  
  


“Holy shit,” Vince says, and Sloan smiles and takes his hand.   
  


Eric turns just a little, so now Little E is looking up at Vince. “The one that’s cursing, that’s your pop,” he says.  
  


The baby’s eyes are wide but not really focused. “Can he see me?” Vince asks.  
  


“I don’t know,” Sloan says.  
  


He bends closer, so his face is maybe an inch from the baby’s face. He smells tart, sort of like carrots, but his eyelashes are perfect and that’s all Vince can stare at for a moment. Perfect tiny eyelashes, and a tiny puckered mouth. “I’m your pop,” he says, tracing his finger across his son’s tiny, perfect forehead. “It’s nice to meet you.”


	5. Chapter 5

The first week is just a total blur. They bring the baby first to Sloan’s place, where they all stand around admiring his cuteness while he sleeps and freaking out about his cries when he’s awake. Sloan is still exhausted from everything, and Vince, well, he wants to help, but the best he can do is just hold the baby and make shushing noises, so it’s Eric who really takes charge. He warms bottles and changes diapers and makes sure he’s swaddled just right, keeps a chart of feedings and changings, and gets them set into a reasonably reliable schedule. Watching him, Vince learns, and starts to wonder where Eric learned. Little E is happiest when he’s being walked around the room, so they take turns pacing the floor until Vince’s arms are sore from carrying him and his knees ache from trying to walk quietly while Sloan is sleeping.  
  


At night they collapse into the guest bedroom, with the door cracked open in case the baby cries, and Vince sleeps desperately and wakes desperately, instantly alert in case Little E needs him, instantly asleep the second he’s sure that he doesn’t. They decided, the three of them — well, Vince didn’t really know enough to contribute, but it was unanimous — to start Little E on formula right away, because although they know all the benefits of breast milk, the disadvantage was that the guys wouldn’t get to feed him very often, and they all agreed that Little E would need to stay at their house at least half time.  
  


At the end of the first week, Vince isn’t sure how they’re ever going to take him home. Or how they’re ever going to leave him at Sloan’s. He can see that they need to — Sloan’s mother is going to stay with her for a while, and Vince knows they should give them some quality time — but he’s worried Eric will come apart if he’s gone from Little E for too long. Twice that week, he finds Eric asleep on the floor by Little E’s crib, “just in case he needs something.” 

But this was what they agreed to. A week together, then a few days for Sloan to adjust to having him herself at nights, followed by some time for Vince and Eric to have him full-time, as well. So on Thursday, when Sloan’s mother is busy with Eric in the kitchen, Vince sits by Sloan on the couch and says, “Could you do me a favor? Would you call tonight?" 

“Vince, we’ll be fine.” 

“I know,” he says, and he does, because Sloan’s already a competent — if exhausted — mother, and with her mother there, things will probably go better. “But — for E’s sake. I mean, if you could just, maybe, make something up to call about.” Vince smiles. “He’s gonna go crazy.” 

“Of course,” Sloan says. 

Vince finally manages to peel Eric away from giving Sloan’s mother a detailed rundown of the code he created on the tally sheets for every possible kind of liquid going in or out of their baby, and with quick kisses to his fuzzy little head, they take their leave. Though Vince’s initial plan was for them to just go straight home and to sleep, he can tell Eric’s a little wired, so he suggests dinner out instead. They end up at a pizza place they both like, in a booth in the back. Eric turns down the offered beer, and Vince has to agree. He’s pretty sure a single bottle would put him under. 

“I don’t remember if I told her about the bottle warmer,” Eric says while they’re waiting on dinner. 

“E, I’m pretty sure Marian’s gonna figure it out.”  
  


“It’s just if you don’t put it right at —” 

“Seriously,” Vince says, reaching across the table. He takes Eric’s hands into his. “It’s going to be fine. She managed to raise Sloan.” 

Eric nods, and then laughs. “I know. I know. I just — fuck. It’s hard.”  
  


“Yeah.”  
  


“He’s so small.”  
  


“He’s in very good hands,” Vince says. “And when it’s our turn, Sloan’s gonna be just as freaked out as you are.”  
  


“There’s some comfort,” he says, but he settles back a little. “All right. Not gonna think about it.”  
  


He does a decent job of pretending he’s not thinking about Sloan and the baby every second, and Sloan’s phone call — ostensibly to ask where Eric put a specific blanket that Little E seems to like — puts him a little closer to at ease, but Vince doesn’t really believe him until they’re in bed, when he finally manages to get Eric’s attention all to himself.  
  


“As soon as he can walk,” Eric says, when Vince is curled up with him, dozing, “we’re gonna have to get in the habit of locking our door.”  
  


Vince smiles. “I’ve lost your undivided attention for the next eighteen years, haven’t I?”  
  


Eric kisses his neck. “Serves you right for having sex with a girl.”  
  


“I’ll never do it again.” 

* * *

When the baby is a month old, they have the shower. It’s one of Little E’s first outings, beyond a few required doctor’s check-ups and a visit to Sloan’s office. They’re all nervous about taking him out in public, in part because there’s a huge bounty on the first pictures of them together, but it actually goes very smoothly. Little E screams for about thirty seconds after they put him in the car seat, but Eric sits in the back with him and coos, and Vince makes funny faces from the front seat, and he’s calm by the time Turtle rolls them out of the gate. Ten minutes after that, he’s asleep, and Vince catches Eric dozing off next to him. It’s been a long, sleepless month.  
  


Shower planning took a backseat to caring for the baby in the last month, so Vince isn’t even exactly sure what the place will look like. Bryce called a couple of times to go over details, and Vince just said OK and made sure it all went on his credit card. “Jesus, we probably own the hotel by now,” Eric says as they get out in the garage, and then he yawns.  
  


“It’s fine,” Vince says, his voice low. His every word and move is attuned to the baby, now, to soothing him, to keeping him asleep, to making him happy. He talks slower and more quietly, these days, touches Eric instead of calling his name, spends a lot of time asking for things with just his eyes. Eric does it, too, and it’s a nice little dance they do. It makes Vince feel like a real parent.  
  


They get Little E snugged into his stroller, another first, and then take the elevator up a floor to the ballroom. When it stops, Eric lets Turtle get out, then stops Vince before he can leave. “This was a really nice thing for you to do,” he says.  
  


“Thanks,” Vince says. He squeezes Eric’s shoulder, ready to move, but Eric keeps his arm across Vince’s path. Vince looks at him, sees some emotion in Eric’s eyes that he can’t quite figure out. “She’s family now,” Vince says. “You know?”  
  


Eric smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Family means a lot, right?”  
  


“Everything,” Vince says, and he bends to kiss Eric. That, finally, convinces Eric it’s OK to go, so they make their way toward the ballroom. They have a small hallway to go down, first, and he sees Johnny standing at the far end next to a woman, and he waves. He’s about to call out, ask where his shower gift is, when the woman turns, and he realizes that it’s his mother.   
  


“Oh my god.”  
  


He’s not sure whether he says it or whether she does. Johnny’s standing right by her — maybe it was him. Maybe it was Eric. He turns to look at him, and finds that Eric doesn’t look surprised at all. Before he can process that, though, his mother is walking toward him, and he straightens up and says, “Ma?”  
  


“Vincent,” she says, and then she’s hugging him, her face against his chest, her hair as dark as always, her shoulders strong when he hugs back. “Baby.”  
  


“What — what’s going on?” he asks. He feels — well, nothing, and too much. Sad. Angry. Excited. Relieved. Confused. They haven’t spoken in more than a year. “What are you doing here?”  
  


She sighs and pulls back. She isn’t looking at him, but to the side, toward the stroller. “I wanted to meet my grandson,” she says.  
  


“He’d like to meet you, too,” Eric says, his voice soft and closer than Vince expected. “I’m glad you came, Rita.”  
  


She nods. Her eyes are still on the stroller. “God, he looks just like you,” she whispers, and then bends to get a good look. “Oh, the hair. The chin. He could be you, Vincent.” She has tears in her eyes when she looks up. “He’s perfect.”  
  


“Uh, yeah, we think so,” Vince says.  
  


She looks from him, to Eric, then back. “Can I hold him?”  
  


“Of course,” Eric says, even though Vince isn’t so sure. He turns to face Eric as his mother picks up Little E. Eric looks up at him, just briefly, and there’s clearly apology in his expression. Vince frowns and turns back to see his mother cradling his son. It’s a very confident hold, the hands of mother — a grandmother — and he listens to her voice slip into the same comforting register that he’s been learning.  
  


“Hello there,” she says. Little E is blinking and doing his usual not-staring staring routine. “My, you’re lovely. Yes. Yes, you are. Sweet baby Eric,” she says. She glances up. “I held you a couple times at this age, too, Eric.”  
  


Eric smirks. Vince’s mother turns back to the baby. “Yes, he had all kinds of hair. Yes, he did, all kinds of it. Bright blonde. Like a doll. Not like your — “ and she looks up at Vince, “your father,” she says, and then, after a pause, “your other father. He had hair just like yours. Dark and stuck out everywhere. Always a mess.”  
  


“Ma,” Vince says, quietly.   
  


When she looks up again, the tears have spilled over. “Oh, baby,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”  
  


He hasn’t talked to his mother in a year, and it suddenly feels like yesterday that everything went wrong, that he was standing in her kitchen staring at her back, wishing she could just understand. He gave up on this moment a long time ago. He doesn’t know what to do, and so he does nothing, just stands there, wishes someone would feed him a line.  
  


Eric takes a step forward. “I can — I should take him inside,” he says. “You two can —”  
  


“No,” Vince’s mother says, and in one careful, easy motion, she sweeps Little E up onto her shoulder, cradling his head and his little behind, rocking almost unconsciously. The baby doesn’t make a sound. “Eric. Sweetheart, I said some terrible things to you. I — I’m so sorry.” Vince watches Eric nod. He wonders what she said, when they even talked. “Your mother would be so proud of you,” she whispers, and Vince puts his hand on Eric’s back. They’ve just been down that road — he’s barely done mourning his mother. “She loved you — oh, I won’t say she loved you more than I love my boys, but she was better at it. I — I fuck things up. I always have.” She’s looking at Vince, now. “I was angry,” she says. “I was angry, and confused, and hurt, and I thought — oh, I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t think much, I guess. But I want — I can’t have my baby having a baby and not be here, Vincent.” Her chin trembles, and she looks back down at Little E. “Please let me be here.”  
  


Vince swallows. “Of course, Ma,” he says. His hand stays on Eric’s back. “Of course. He should know his grandma.”  
  


“Good,” she says. “Well, OK, now, Eric, you can have him — I should go freshen up a little before I go inside, I guess. It’s pretty fancy for old Grandma in there.”  
  


Eric takes the baby carefully, one hand always on his head. He even takes a hug from Vince’s mom, and then Vince gets another, a long, almost painful, hug before she pulls back and asks Johnny to show her where the ladies’ room is.   
  


Once she’s down the hall, and Little E is back in his stroller, Vince stops Eric with a hand on his shoulder. “You did that.”  
  


Eric shrugs. “Family,” he says. “Don’t be mad, all right?”  
  


Vince pauses, then nods. “Yeah.” He puts his arms around Eric’s shoulders as they walk. Sloan meets them at the entrance, and from the careful smile on her face, Vince knows she probably saw the whole scene in the hallway. She bends and picks up Little E, kisses the side of his head, and Vince suddenly has the urge to do the same, so he does, then kisses her cheek. She cups his face briefly, then leans around him to touch Eric’s shoulder. Eric takes Vince’s hand. “You guys ready to show off our little guy?” she asks.  
  


“I’m ready to show off my family,” he says, and that’s how they enter the ballroom, a proud mother, two proud dads, and their adorable, barely awake son.


End file.
